. 


Illiiir 

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TO  MY  DAD 


COMPILED  BY 

WALLACE  and  FRANCES  RICE 


DECORATIONS 

BY 

ELIZABETH  IVINS  JONES 


NEW  YORK 

BARSE  AND  HOPKINS 

PUBLISHERS 


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MyJDad 


Copyright,  1913,  by 
BARSE  AND  HOPKINS 


The  publishers  and  compilers  wish  to  acknowledge  their 
obligations  to  all  who  have  contributed  to  the  contents  of 
this  volume,  and  especially  to  Mrs.  Edwin  Oscar  Gale  and 
Mr.  Oliver  Marble  Gale  for  permission  to  use  extracts  from 
the  works  of  the  late  Edwin  Oscar  Gale,  to  Mrs.  Helen 
Ekin  Starrett  for  the  poem  of  her  sister,  the  late  Florence 
Ekin  Allison,  to  Miss  Florence  Holbrook  for  the  poem  from 
the  works  of  her  late  father,  Edmund  S.  Holbrook,  to  Miss 
Kena  Albertyn  Smith,  Miss  Grace  Berenice  Cooper,  and 
others;  and  to  Messrs.  Small,  Maynard  &  Company  and 
Mr.  George  Horace  Lorimer  for  extracts  from  "  The  Let- 
ters of  a  Self-Made  Merchant  to  his  Son,"  to  Mr.  Mitchell 
Kennedy  and  Mr.  William  Rose  Bendt  for  a  poem  from 
"The  Lyric  Year,"  to  Messrs.  Forbes  &  Company  for  a 
poem  by  the  late  Ben  King,  to  "  The  Ladies'  Home  Journal " 
and  Mr.  Strickland  W.  Gillilan  for  a  poem  by  the  latter,  to 
"The  Saturday  Evening  Post,"  and  Mr.  Louis  E.  Thayer 
for  a  poem,  and  to  Messrs.  Samuel  Ellsworth  Kiser,  Ray 
Clarke  Rose,  Donald  Robertson,  Bert  Leston  Taylor,  Charles 
Hanson  Towne,  Christopher  Bannister,  John  Jarvis  Holden, 
and  Alexander  Maclean. 


8 


Printed  in  U,  S.  A 


1DO 
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T   ET  this  be  said  of  Fathers.    All  our 

*-*  thought  of  God,  Creator,  heavenly 
Friend  and  tender,  is  surely  based,  since 
Time  began,  upon  our  human  fathers  here 
below;  and  His  all-knowing  justice,  quick 
to  smile  upon  our  goodness,  slow  to  punish- 
ment however  much  deserved,  is  founded 
deep  upon  our  knowledge  of  the  kindly 
men  who  are  our  sires,  and  still  our  surest 
friends  in  all  this  troubled  world.  Within 
their  hearts  our  lives  had  being,  from  pro- 
foundest  love  rising  within  their  souls  our 
younger  souls  took  birth,  upon  our  baby- 
hood their  eyes  rested  with  gentleness,  our 
stormy  youth  passed  its  slow  hours  with 
sympathetic  light  from  their  lost  little  days 
to  give  it  guidance.  Their  toil,  their  weari- 
ness, their  upward  flight  were  all  for  us,  and 
on  this  faithful  duty  performed  so  well  is 
reared  the  edifice  of  civilization  and  the 
dome  of  state.  — Wallace  Rice* 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2012  with  funding  from 

University  of  North  Carolina  at  Chapel  Hill 


http://archive.org/details/tomydadOOricewallace 


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TO  MY  DAD 

1K7TIEN  I  was  just  a  little  kid 
™  »       My  Daddy  seemed  so  big  and  grown 
I  thought  him  dreadful  old,  I  did, — 
Older  than  anyone  I'd  known. 

It  never  once  came  in  my  head — 

When  I  was  just  a  kid,  you  know, — 

That  his  own  boyhood  was  not  dead 
And  had  not  passed  so  long  ago. 

Of  course  I  knew — and  knew  it  then — 
That  some  day,  say  next  century, 

Small  boys,  like  me,  grew  to  be  men; 
But  never  men  as  old  as  he ! 

In  those  young  days  I  used  to  wonder, 
When   I'd   done   wrong   and   had   been 
caught, 

Just  how  it  was  Dad  knew,  by  thunder! 
So  much  about  my  inner  thought. 

Well,  I  know  now  my  dear  old  Dad 
Has  never  lost  the  thoughts  of  boys, 

Nor  how  it  feels  to  be  a  lad 

With  little  hopes  and  fears  and  joys; 

And  every  year,  as  these  years  end, 
My  Dad  more  youthful  seems  to  me — > 

More  of  a  boy,  more  of  a  friend, 
And  younger  than  I  used  to  be! 

— 'John  Jarvis  Holden. 


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IF  he's  wealthy  and  prominent  and  you 
*  stand  in  awe  of  him,  call  him  'Father.' 
If  he  sits  in  his  shirt-sleeves  and  suspenders 
at  ball  games  and  picnics,  call  him  'Pop.' 
If  he  tills  the  land  or  teaches  Sunday 
School,  call  him  'Pa.'  If  he  wheels  the 
baby  carriage  and  carries  bundles  meekly, 
call  him  'Papa,'  with  the  accent  on  the  first 
syllable.  If  he  belongs  to  a  literary  circle 
and  writes  cultured  papers,  or  if  he  is  a  re- 
former in  politics  and  forgets  to  vote,  call 
him  'Papa,'  with  the  accent  on  the  last  syl- 
lable. If,  however,  he  makes  a  pal  of  you 
when  you're  good,  and  is  too  wise  to  let  you 
pull  the  wool  over  his  loving  eyes  when 
you're  not;  if,  moreover,  you're  sure  no 
other  fellow  you  know  has  quite  so  fine  a 
father,  you  may  call  him  'Dad,'  but  not 
otherwise.         — H.  C.  Chat  field-Taylor, 


T~\AD — just  dad:  what  love  breathes 
■*-^  around  that  name  wrought  by  Love 
itself!  Throughout  the  year  more  lavish  of 
gifts  than  days  of  June,  he  finds  happiness 
in  bestowing  happiness.  Not  only  does  he 
give  comforts  and  material  protection,  but 
by  his  strength  of  spirit,  by  his  sympathy 
and  sincerity,  by  his  experience  wrested  from 
the  years,  by  his  joyous  and  youthful  heart 
triumphing  over  grief  and  strife,  his  ex- 
ample is  itself  a  teacher  of  life's  greater 
values.  — Rena  Albertyn  Smith. 


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XKTHEN  I  was  a  very  little  lad 
*  *       I  used  to  go  walking  with  my  Dad. 
Sunday!    Yes,  that  was  the  day  for  me, 
The  day  of  days,  when  Dad  was  free. 

He  always  bought  me  a  red  balloon 
That  seemed  to  me  as  big  as  the  moon, 
And  he  always  took  me  to  some  fine  shop 
And  gave  me  a  glass  of  ginger-pop. 

He  took  me  out  in  the  country,  too, 
Where  buttercups  and  daisies  grew; 
And  on  one  big  bridge  we  used  to  stand 
And    watch    the     ships — it     was     Fairy- 
land. .  .  . 

Dad  died  when  I  was  still  quite  small, 
I  think  I  missed  him  most  of  all; 
And,  though  I've  seen  'most  every  sight 
Since  I  was  such  a  little  wight, 

I  often  long  for  those  Sunday  walks, 
My  red  balloon,  and  our  simple  talks ; 
And  I've  sought,  but  I  never  can  seem  to 

find 
Those  curious  streets  that  used  to  wind 

To  that  wonderful  bridge  on  which  we  stood, 
And  that  flower-filled  meadow  by  the  wood. 
Yet  I  know  if  I  found  them  the  tears  would 

start, 
And  I  think  it  would  almost  break  my  heart. 
— Charles  Hanson  Towne. 


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tfttyJDad 


T  N  my  father,  I  observed  his  meekness ;  his 
*  constancy  without  wavering  in  those 
things,  which  after  a  due  examination  and 
deliberation,  he  had  determined.  How  free 
from  all  vanity  he  carried  himself;  how  gen- 
erally and  impartially  he  would  give  every 
man  his  due;  his  skill  and  knowledge,  when 
rigor  or  extremity,  or  when  remissness  or 
moderation  was  in  season;  and  that  when- 
soever any  necessary  business  upon  some 
necessary  occasions  was  to  be  put  off  before 
it  could  be  ended,  he  was  ever  found  when 
he  went  about  it  again,  the  same  man  that 
he  was  before.  His  care  to  preserve  his 
friends;  how  neither  at  any  time  he  would 
carry  himself  toward  them  with  disdainful 
neglect,  and  grow  weary  of  them;  nor  yet 
at  any  time  be  madly  fond  of  them.  How 
he  was  neither  a  superstitious  worshiper  of 
the  gods,  nor  an  ambitious  pleaser  of  men, 
or  studious  of  popular  applause;  but  sober 
in  all  things,  and  everywhere  observant  of 
what  was  fitting;  in  those  things  which 
conduced  to  his  ease  and  convenience  with- 
out pride  and  bragging,  yet  with  all  free- 
dom and  liberty:  so  that  as  he  did  freely 
enjoy  them  without  any  anxiety  or  affecta- 
tion when  they  were  present,  so  when  ab- 
sent, he  found  no  want  of  them;  keeping 
within  the  compass  proper  to  a  man  who 
hath  a  perfect  and  invincible  soul. 

— Marcus  Aurelius  Antoninm. 


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"Y/f  Y  Daddy  he's  just  been  and  told 
•*-  ■*•    Me  just  the  funniest  thing! 
I  always  thought  men  were  too  old 
To  be  remembering 


When  they  were  boys,  if  they  ever  were— = 
And  here  Dad's  been  and  showed 

That  they  were  babies  once — yes 
Before  they  went  and  growed. 

And  Daddy  got  the  papers  out 

With  pictures  of  great  men; 
And  I  guessed  how  they  looked,  about 

When  they  were  babies  then. 

There's  Pres'dent  Taft — well,  he  was  round 

And  kind  of  smiling  slow; 
And  Daddy  said  that  that  was  sound, 

And  guessed  that  that  was  so. 

And  Pres'dent  Rosyvelt,  well,  he — 

Well,  he'd  just  up  and  holler 
Till  all  the  folks  came  in  to  see; 

And  Dad  said,  'That  might  foller.' 

And  Pres'dent  Wilson,  well,  he'd  blink, 

All  kind  of  still  and  slight, 
And  sort  of  make-believe  to  think; 

And  Dad  said,  'Guess  you're  right.' 

And  say,  if  they  were  babies — gee! 
There's  some  show  for  a  boy  like  me. 

— John  Jarvis  Holden, 


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\X  THEN  Dad  was  young,  he  used  to  be 

*  *       So  good  he  made  his  parents  glad; 
He  hadn't  any  faults,  and,  gee! 

The  kind  thoughts  that  he  always  had! 
It  made  him  glad  to  wash  his  face, 

And  always  do  what  he  was  told; 
And  there  was  peace  about  the  place — 

His  father  never  had  to  scold. 

Dad  says  his  hair  is  grey  because 

My  wickedness  has  made  it  so; 
I'm  not  the  kind  of  boy  he  was 

When  a^  was  little,  long  ago. 
I've  put  the  wrinkles  in  his  brow, 

And  robbed  him  of  his  hopefulness, 
And  he'd  be  young  and  happy  now 

If  I  had  not  been  born,  I  guess. 

When  Dad  was  young  he  used  to  try 

To  keep  his  parents  full  of  glee ; 
He  never  made  his  daddy  sigh, 

And  was  as  good  as  good  could  be! 
Dad  was  an  angel  child,  but  still 

My  poor  old  Grandpa  has  white  hair; 
And  who,  I  wonder,  helped  to  fill 

His  face  so  full  of  lines  of  care? 

— Samuel  Ellsworth  Riser. 


"ITLTHEN  the  old  man  waggles  his  head 
"  *     and  says,  'Ah,  so  I  thought  when  I 
was  your  age,'  he  has  proved  the  youth's 
case.  —-Robert  Louis  Stevenson, 


IV — 7 


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/^\N  summer  Saturday's  long  afternoon 
^"^     I  used  to  climb,  barefoot,  one  throne- 
like knoll, 
Soliloquizing,  "Father's  coming  soon." 
The  grey  pike  billowed  eastward  like  a 
scroll, 
And  vanished  in  the  summit  of  a  hill 
A    world-long   mile    away;   around    me 
played 
The  shifting  sunbeams,  magically  still, 
Tiptoeing    from    each    ever-lengthening 
shade. 


I  knew  that  when  they  crept  into  my  ken 
Above  the  hillbrink  I  should  know  the 
span: 
White-stockinged   bay,  head-tossing  grey; 
and  then 
The  strong  familiar  figure  of  the  man. 
I'd  know  him — know  him!    Leaping  with 
their  joy 
My  swift  feet  from  my  cairn  would  bear 
me  down — 
A  laughing,  zephyr-hearted,  eager  boy, 
Welcoming  home  my  father  from  the 
town! 

One  day  my  father  went  away  again; 
Perhaps  the  sun  shone,  but  we  could  not 

see. 
I  have  not  climbed  that  little  knoll  since 

then, 


HOPS 

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For  Father  is  not  coming  home  to  me. 
Somewhere  he  waits  upon  a  sun-kissed  hill 
And  softly  says,  'My  boy  is  coming  soon.' 
He'll   know   me   from   afar — I    know   he 
will!— 
When,  world-tired,  I  trudge  home,  some 
afternoon. 

— Strickland  W.  Gillilan. 

T"\EAR  Dad,  as  your  daughter  takes  a 
•*^  backward  glance  over  the  road  of  her 
youth  before  rounding  the  corner  of  new 
duties,  she  sees  the  way  lighted  by  the  sac- 
rifices of  fatherly  love ;  she  sees  burdens  not 
dropped  but  made  easier  to  bear;  she  sees 
wise  and  helpful  counsel  which  guided  past 
days  of  temptation  and  nights  of  discourage- 
ment; and  in  every  weary  hour  she  found 
always  a  sane  counselor,  a  sympathetic 
friend  in  her  dear  Dad. 

— Grace  Berenice  Cooper. 


KINDER  gentleman  treads  not  the 
earth.         — William  Shakespeare. 


'A/'OU  know  so  much  at  twenty/  said 
•*•  the  father  to  his  youthful  son;  'so 
much  more  than  you  will  at  thirty.  At 
forty  you  will  begin  to  suspect  me  of  know- 
ing something;  and  at  fifty  you  will  wish  to 
Heaven  that  you  knew  as  much  as  your 
Daddy.     I  know,  because  I'm  fifty.' 


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lHVlM  o'er  the  pastures  the  deep  shadows 

*~*   gather; 

Twilight  brings  truce  to  the  labors  of  men, 
And  the  tired  world  doth  return,  like  a 
father, 

Unto  the  home  of  the  evening  again. 

Long  pleasant  shadows  that  wait  the  stars' 
blisses 
Follow  the  feet  of  the  toilers,  who  come 
Glad   from   their   labors   to   soft   clinging 
kisses 
And  the  sweet  cheer  of  their  children  and 
home. 

What  are  the  toils  of  the  day  and  their 
traces 
When,  'mid  the  wonder  of  roses  and  dew, 
Strong  arms  and  slender  are  twined  in  em- 
braces, 
Young  hearts  and  old  pulsing  tender  and 
true? 

Darkling  the  night  comes  to  doom  the  day 
ended ; 
Silent   the   stars   mount   their   heavenly 
throne, 
Smiling  fond  envy  in  rays  softly  splendid, 
As  the  glad  father  returns  to  his  own. 
— Christopher  Bannister. 

TJERE'S  to  my  good  chum,  dear  Dad, 
•*  **  with  all  the  love  of  your  daughter, 
Dad's  dear  I 


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jDROWN  eyes, 

*-*     Straight  nose, 
Dirt  pies, 

Rumpled  clothes; 

Torn  books, 

Spoilt  toys; 
Arch  looks, 

Unlike  a  boy's ; 

Little  rages, 
Obvious  arts; 

(Three  her  age  is)1, 
Cakes,  tarts; 

Falling  down 

Off  chairs; 
Breaking  crown 

Down  stairs; 

Catching  flies 
On  the  pane ; 

Deep  sighs — 
Cause  not  plain; 

Bribing  you 

With  kisses 
For  a  few 

Farthing  blisses ; 


'Mercy's  sake, 
Quiet,  dear!' 


Wide  awake, 
As  vou  hear- 


New  shoes, 

New  frock; 
Vague  views 

Of  what's  o'clock 

When  it's  time 
To  go  to  bed, 

And  scorn  sublime 
For  what  is  said; 

Folded  hands 
Saying  prayers, 

Understands 
Not,  nor  cares; 

Thinks  it  odd, 

Smiles  away; 
Yet  may  God 

Hear  her  pray! 

(Bedgown  white, 

Kiss  Dolly; 
Good-night ! — 

That's  Polly. 

Fast  asleep 

As  you  see; 
Heaven  keep 

My  girl  for  me! 


William  Brighty  Bands. 


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npHOU  happy,  happy  elf! 
•*■       (But  stop, — first  let  me  kiss  away  that 

tear!) 
Thou  tiny  image  of  myself! 
(My  love,  he's  poking  peas  into  his  earty 
Thou  merry,  laughing  sprite, 
With  spirits  feather-light, 
Untouched    by   sorrow,    and   unsoiled    by 

sin, — 
(My  dear,  the  child  is  swallowing  a  pin!) 

Thou  enviable  being! 

No  storms,  no  clouds,  in  thy  blue  sky  fore- 
seeing, 
Play  on,  play  on, 
My  elfin  John! 

Toss  the  light  ball,  bestride  the  stick, — 

(I  knew  so  many  cakes  would  make  him 
sick!) 

With  fancies,  buoyant  as  the  thistle-down, 

Prompting  the  face  grotesque,  and  antic 
brisk, 

With  many  a  lamb-like  frisk! 

(He's  got  the  scissors,  snipping  at  your 
gown!) 

Thou  pretty  opening  rose! 

[(Go  to  your  mother,  child,  and  wipe  your 

nose!) 
Bold  as  the  hawk,  yet  gentle  as  the  dove ; — 
(I'll  tell  you  what,  my  love, 
I  cannot  write  unless  he's  sent  above!) 

— Thomas  Hood. 


SiQW 


"*»*•«' 


I  GROAN  as  I  put  out 

*•       My  nets  on  the  say, 
To  hear  the  little  girshas  shout, 
Dancin'  among  the  spray. 

Ochone  I  the  childer  pass 
An'  lave  us  to  our  grief; 

The  stranger  took  my  little  lass 
At  the  fall  o'  the  loaf. 

Why  would  you  go  so  fast 
With  him  you  never  knew? 

In  all  the  throuble  that  is  past 
I  never  frowned  on  you. 

The  light  o'  my  old  eyes, 
The  comfort  of  my  heart ! — 

Waitin'  for  me  your  mother  lies 
In  blessed  Innishart.  .  .  . 


Ochone!  my  thoughts  are  wild: 

But  little  blame  I  say; 
An  ould  man  hungerin'  for  his  child, 

Fishin'  the  livelong  day. 

You  will  not  run  again, 

Laughin'  to  see  me  land. 
Oh,  what  was  pain  and  throuble  then, 

Holdin'  your  little  hand? 

Or  when  your  head  let  fall 
Its  soft  curls  on  my  breast? 


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MyJDad 


Why  do  the  childher  grow  at  all 
To  love  the  stranger  best? 

— Katharine  Tynan-Hinkson. 

QJWEET,  they  say,  the  music  that  the 
^  seraph  Israfel 

Strikes  from  his  heart's  strings  in  the  sun, 
Sweeter  far  the  laughter  that  melodiously 
fell 

From  your  lips,  my  bright-eyed  little  one! 

Call  it  bubbling  spirit  out  of  nature's  deep, 

Or  the  5roung   soul's   thanksgiving   and 

prayer, 

Call  it  light  made  audible  for  mother's  heart 

to  keep, 

Her  one  recompense  from  crowning  care. 

Call  it  what  one  will,  yet  it  is  more  than 
words  can  say: 
Hope's  own  voice  made  true,  and  Truth's 
made  glad, 
Love's  most  perfect  symphony,  and  Life's 
divinest  lay, 
Heaven's  voice  proclaiming,  'Be  not  sad!' 

Blessed  child,  your  laughter,  will  it  change 
with  changing  years? 
Pray  its  innocence  may  ne'er  depart, 
Let  it  be  a  symbol,  christened  by  most  tender 
tears, 
Of  the  pure  white  goodness  of  your  heart ! 
— Donald  Robertson, 


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WHAT  I  shall  leave  thee  none  can  tell, 
But  all  shall  say  I  wish  thee  well; 
I  wish  thee,  Vin,  before  all  wealth, 
Both  bodily  and  ghostly  health: 
Nor  too  much  wealth,  nor  wit,  come  to  thee, 
So  much  of  either  may  undo  thee. 
I  wish  thee  learning,  not  for  show, 
Enough  for  to  instruct,  and  know. 
I  wish  thee  all  thy  mother's  graces, 
Thy  father's  fortunes,  and  his  places. 
I  wish  thee  friends,  and  one  at  court, 
Not  to  build  on,  but  support; 
To  keep  thee,  not  from  doing  many 
Oppressions,  but  from  suffering  any, 
I  wish  thee  peace  in  all  thy  ways, 
Nor  lazy,  nor  contentious  days; 
And  when  thy  soul  and  body  part, 
As  innocent  as  now  thou  art. 
— Richard  Corbet,  'A  Father's  Blessing.' 


Of 

IP 


"JV/fYRIADS  of  stars,  but  only  one  sun; 
^  ■*■  many  friends,  but  only  one  father. 
Yet,  even  as  the  sun's  bright  kindliness  is 
taken  quite  as  a  matter  of  course  in  fair 
weather,  so  is  a  father's  glowing  affection. 
It  is  only  when  the  weariness  of  a  wet  week 
comes  upon  us  that  we  feel  to  the  full  what 
the  splendor  of  the  sun  means  to  us ;  and  too 
often  it  is  not  until  a  father  is  long  absent 
that  his  children  come  to  understand  the  full 
significance  of  his  daily  life  amongst  them. 
— Rowena  'Adelaide  Stone. 


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TITERE  I  a  poet,  my  love  for  my  father 
™  *  would  flow  into  song;  yet,  even  then, 
I  could  not  tell  much  about  my  father,  for 
a  father  is  one  of  the  wonderful  things  I 
cannot  quite  comprehend.  There  seems  to 
me  something  mysterious  about  him,  some- 
thing that  is  not  heard  in  his  voice,  though 
at  times  it  whispers  when  he  is  silent.  I 
think,  most  of  all,  it  is  something  of  which 
he  is  unconscious — an  expression  of  his  face. 
On  the  faces  of  other  girls'  fathers  I  have 
noticed  the  same  indefinably  wistful  combi- 
nation of  love,  joy,  pride — and  pain.  It  is 
the  pain  I  do  not  comprehend;  perhaps  I 
might  if  I  could  see  the  side  of  fathers' 
hearts  which  is  turned  within:  the  secret  I 
seek  is  not  written  on  the  side  they  turn  to- 
ward their  children.  If  fathers  suffer,  they 
never  tell,  for  they  hide  their  hurts  as  war- 
riors hide  their  wounds. 

— Rena  Albertyn  Smith. 

\\  TITH  her  blithe  smile  and  gleam  of 

*  *     golden  hair, 

She  like  a  candle  lit  her  father's  hearth, 
Making  the  old  man  glad. 

— Alexander  Smith. 

HpHOU  art  the  framer  of  my  nobler  be- 
A    ing; 

Nor  does  there  live  one  virtue  in  my  soul, 
One  honorable  hope,  but  calls  thee  father. 
— Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge. 


bitterest  and  the  gladdest  hour  it 


was 


I  stood  at  the  stair's  foot  and  heard  your  cry 
Ring  through  the  house.     Upon  the  slant- 
ing glass 
The    setting    sun    made    splendor,    and    I 

watched 
Him   sink  with   eyes   which   nothing  saw. 

Again, 
A  moment's   space  the   chamber-door  un- 
latched 
Let  out  your  moaning,  and  I  bitterly 
Bowed  down  and  trembled  at  your  voice  of 

pain. 
Eternity  seemed  crowded  in  that  hour; 
All  thought  and  passion,  faculty  and  power, 
Was  quickened  and  intense ;  the  veil  of  gross 
And  faulty  apprehension  was  withdrawn, 
And  left  the  naked  heaven  of  infinite  things 
Close  to  me,  like  a  throbbing  heart.     More 

close 
I  felt  thy  spirit,  and  I  cried,  "What  now 
If  she  be  passing  out  on  angel's  wings?" 
Just  then  the  sun  sank  to  his  other  dawn, 
And  as  his  rim  burned  down  in  final  glow, 
I  heard  a  new  voice  in  the  house,  the  cry 
Of  the  new-born,   whose  kindling  human 

light 
Rose  on  our  lives,  and,  please  God,  by-and- 

by 
Shall  shine  far  out  athwart  the  world's  dark 
nignt.       — William  James  Dawson. 


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/^OMES  Little  Lady,  a  book  in  hand, 
^~/     A    Light    in   her    eyes    that    I    un- 
derstand, 
And  her  cheeks  aglow  from  the  faery  breeze 
That  sweeps  across  the  uncharted  seas. 
She  gives  me  the  book,  and  the  word  of 

praise 
A  ton  of  critical  thought  outweighs. 
'I've  finished  it,  daddie!'     A  sigh  thereat. 
'Are  there  any  more  books  in  the  world  like 

that?' 

No,  Little  Lady.     I  grieve  to  say 
That  of  all  the  books  in  the  world  to-day 
There's  not  another  that's  quite  the  same 
As  this  magic  book  with  the  magic  name. 
Volumes  there  be  that  are  pure  delight, 
Ancient  and  yellowed,  or  new  and  bright ; 
But — little  and  thin,  or  big  and  fat — 
There  are  no  more  books  in  the  world  like 
that. 

And  what,  Little  Lady,  would  I  not  give 

For  the  wonderful  world  in  which  you  live! 

What  have  I  garnered  half  as  true 

As  the  tales  Titania  whispers  you? 

Ah,  late  we  learn  that  the  only  truth 

Was  that  which  we  found  in  the  Book  of 

Youth. 
Profitless  others,  and  stale,  and  fat — 
There  are  no  more  books  in  the  world  like 

that. 
— Bert  Leston  Taylor:    'Treasure  Island.' 


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A    LITTLE  child,  a  limber  elf, 
***•       Singing,  dancing  to  itself, 
A  fairy  thing  with  red  round  cheeks 
That  always  finds,  and  never  seeks, 
Makes  such  a  vision  to  the  sight 
As  fills  a  father's  eyes  with  light ; 
And  pleasures  flow  in  so  thick  and  fast 
Upon  his  heart,  that  he  at  last 
Must  needs  express  his  love's  excess 
With  words  of  unmeant  bitterness. 

— Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge. 

\  71  7HEN  Dad  an'  Maw  was  married  in  the 
*  *    days  long  gone  an'  dead, 
The  neighbors  sorter  run  the  house — Mis' 
Grundy  was  the  law; 
When  Dad  felt  kinder  bilious,  the  ol'  wood- 
pile in  the  shed 
Was  what  he  mostly  needed,  an'  he  uster 
go  an'  saw; 
An'  Maw  kep'  busy  knittin',  makin'  clo'es 
an'  bakin'  pies, 
An'  Sis  helped  with  the  dishes  an'  the 
baby  an'  the  rest, 
An'  Bub — that 's  me — did  chorin',  early  bed 
an'  early  rise; 
The  family  was  sleepin'  when  the  sun  was 
in  the  west. 

I'm  Daddy  of  a  family  now,  built  on  a 
diff'runt  plan: 
A  gas  bill  once  a  month,  instead  o'  that 
ol'  hickory  pile; 


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Now  when  I  wanter  exercise,  I  take  the 
hired  man — 
He  does  me  for  a  caddy — an'  I  play  my 
golf  in  style; 
An'  Mother?     She  'n'  the  hired  help  jest 
tuck  th'  aut'mobile; 
An'    Sister    whacks    at    tenuis — tendin' 
Baby  ain't  her  song; 
An'  Brother  rows  an'  kicks  an'  swims,  his 
muscles  is  like  steel — 
They  ain't  no  chores  to  keep  him  down — 
he's  too  be  jiggered  strong! 

I  dunno  what  our  Baby  does,  but  sorter 
'spect  the  nurse 
Gets  him  to  sprint  with  policemen  when 
she  takes  him  out  to  walk — 
He  certainly  is  lookin'  's  if  he  oughter  come 
in  firs', 
A-singin'  coon  songs  long  before  he's  old 
enough  to  talk. 
Them  good  ol'  times  wan't  none  too  good — 
they  knew  no  better  then, 
To  work  was  pious,  an'  't  was  always 
wickedness  to  play; 
But  now  our  women's  stronger  an'  we're 
better  lookin'  men, 
An*  boys  an'  girls  grow  bigger — an'  I'm 
glad  to  see  the  day! 

— Alexander  MacLean. 


IKE  father,  like  son. 


— Old  Proverb. 


gnnoD 


us 
TO 


rp  AKE  my  head  on  your  shoulder,  Daddy, 
■*■      Turn  your  face  to  the  west ; 
It  is  just  the  hour  when  the  sky  turns  gold, 

The  hour  that  mother  loves  best. 
The  day  has  been  long  without  you,  Daddy, 

You've  been  such  a  while  away. 
And  now  you're  as  tired  of  your   work, 
Daddy, 

As  I  am  tired  of  my  play; 
But  I've  got  you  and  you've  got  me, 

So  everything  seems  right; 
I  wonder  if  mother  is  thinking  of  us, 

Because  it's  my  birthday  night. 

Why  do  your  big  tears  fall,  Daddy? 

Mother's  not  far  away; 
I  often  seem  to  hear  her  voice 

Falling  across  my  play; 
And  it  sometimes  makes  me  cry,  Daddy, 

To  think  it  's  none  of  it  true, 
Till  I  fall  asleep  to  dream,  Daddy, 

Of  home,  and  mother,  and  you; 
For  I've  got  you  and  you've  got  me, 

So  everything  may  go ; 
We're  all  the  world  to  each  other,  Daddy; 

Dear  mother  told  me  so. 


D 


I'm  sometimes  afraid  to  think,  Daddy, 

When  I  am  big  like  you, 
And  you  are  old  and  grey,  Daddy, 

What  you  and  I  would  do 


Qej 

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If  when  we  got  up  to  Heaven, 

And  mother  was  waiting  there, 
She  shouldn't  remember  the  two  she  left, 

So  sad  and  lonely  here ! 
But  year  by  year  still  sees  no  change, 

And  so  'twill  all  be  right, 
We  shall  always  meet  her  in  our  dreams, 

Daddy,  dear  Daddy,  good-night. 

— Mary  Mark-Lemon. 

A  FATHER  who  understands  human 
■i*'  nature  can  turn  out  an  imitation  parson 
from  a  boy  whom  the  Lord  intended  to  go 
on  the  Board  of  Trade.  But  on  general 
principles  it's  best  to  let  your  boy  follow  his 
bent,  even  if  it  leads  him  into  the  wheat  pit. 

While  a  young  fellow  will  consult  his 
father  about  buying  a  horse,  he's  cocksure 
of  himself  when  it  comes  to  picking  a  wife. 

I  want  to  say  right  here  that  I  don't  pro- 
pose to  be  an  ancestor  until  after  I'm  dead. 

You  worry  over  Charlie  at  college  because 
he's  a  little  wild,  and  he  writes  you  that  he's 
been  elected  president  of  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.; 
and  you  worry  over  William  because  he's  so 
pious  that  you're  afraid  he's  going  to  throw 
up  everything  and  go  to  China  as  a  mission- 
ary, and  he  draws  on  you  for  a  hundred. 
Worrying  is  the  one  game  in  which,  if  y©u 
guess  right,  you  don't  get  any  satisfaction 
out  of  your  smartness. 

— George  Horace  Lorimer. 


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TV/TY  little  son,  who  looked  from  thought- 

•*•*■■  ful  eyes 

And  moved  and  spoke  in  quiet  grown-up 

wise, 
Having  my  law  the  seventh  time  disobeyed, 
I  struck  him,  and  dismissed 
With  hard  words  and  unkissed, 
His  mother,  who  was  patient,  being  dead. 
Then,  fearing  lest  his  grief  should  hinder 

sleep, 
I  visited  his  bed, 

But  found  him  slumbering  deep, 
With  darkened  eyelids,  and  their  lashes  yet 
From  his  late  sobbing  wet. 
And  I,  with  moan, 
Kissing  away  his  tears,  left  others  of  my 

own; 
For,  on  a  table  drawn  beside  his  head, 
He  had  put,  within  his  reach, 
A  box  of  counters  and  a  red-veined  stone, 
A  piece  of  glass  abraded  by  the  beach, 
And  six  or  seven  shells, 
A  bottle  with  bluebells, 
And  two  French  copper  coins,  ranged  there 

with  careful  art, 
To  comfort  his  sad  heart. 
So  when  that  night  I  prayed 
To  God,  I  wept,  and  said: 
'Ah,   when   at   last   we   lie   with    tranced 

breath, 
Not  vexing  Thee  in  death, 
And  Thou  rememberest  of  what  tovs 


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We  made  our  joys, 

How  weakly  understood 

Thy  great  commanded  good, 

Then,  fatherly  not  less 

Than  I  whom  Thou  hast  moulded  from  the 

clay, 
Thou'lt  leave  Thy  wrath,  and  say, 
"I  will  be  sorry  for  their  childishness."  ' 
— Coventry  Patmore. 

"D  EHOLD  the  child  among  his  new-born 
*-*  blisses, 
A  six  years'  darling  of  a  pigmy  size! 
See,  where  'mid  work  of  his  own  hand  he 
lies, 
Fretted  by  sallies  of  his  mother's  kisses, 
With  light  upon  him  from  his  father's 
eyes! 

— William  Wordsworth, 


OOK  how  he  laughs  and  stretches  out 
*^  his  arms, 

And  opens  wide  his  blue  eyes  upon  thine, 
To  hail  his  father:  while  his  little  form 
Flutters  as  winged  with  joy.     Talk  not  of 

pain! 
The  childless  cherubs  might  well  envy  thee 
The  pleasures  of  a  parent. 

— Lord  Byron, 


FATHER  is  a  banker  given  by  na- 
ture. — Montaigne. 


TO" 


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NOT    only    women    dream    the    future's 
child 
Or  children,  though  such  deep  desire  they 

bear 
For  all  the  rich  rewards  of  motherhood, 
They  smile  in  travail;  though  each  girl  un- 

grown 
Who  sings  her  dolls  uncertain  lullabies 
Sees  infant  faces,  feels  soft  arms  that  cling, 
Hears  deep  within  the  nursery  of  her  heart 
A  medley  of  small  mirth  adorable, 
And,  as  she  grows,  mothers  all  things  she 

loves, 
Lacking  the  little  head  against  her  breast 
And  yearning  for  it,  when  she  cannot  know 
Wherefore  she  yearns.     Yet  sometimes  to  a 

man, 
Roughest  and  sternest  though  he  be  of  men, 
Shocked  into  strength  and  pondering,  from 

his  young 
Exuberance  and  easy  joy,  there  comes 
A  longing  that  convulses  all  his  soul; 
And,  standing  in  the  wind  against  some 

dawn's 
Prospect  of  racjng  cloud  and  lightening  sky, 
Or  hard-beset  in  battle  with  the  world 
Deep  in  the  city's  stridence,  or  at  pause 
Before  some  new-discovered  truth  of  life, 
Unwittingly  his  hands  go  out  to  touch. 
Hold  off,  and  scan  the  youth  of  him  that 

was, 
Thrill  to  that  brighter  you  it  is  decreed 


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Each  father  shall  inherit  from  his  son. 
And,  if  his  hands  grope  blindly,  so  his  heart, 
To  hear  a  young  voice  at  his  shoulder  speak, 
Know  young,  elastic  strides  beside  his  own, 
Resolve  the  problems  of  an  unsullied  heart 
Flaming  to  his  for  counsel.     I,  scarce  grown 
Into  my  manhood,  hovering,  hovering  still 
Over  my  boyhood  (as  the  gravest,  oldest 
Of  men  doth  yet,  or  is  no  man  of  men) , 
Felt  my  heart  tense,  and  but  a  noon  ago 
Strove  in  quick  torture — for  no  woman's 

arms, 
No  woman's  eyes,  but  for  a  questioning 

voice 
Beside  me,  and  a  sturdy  little  step 
In  rhythm  with  mine.     A   phantom 

looked  up, 
Trusting,    round-eyed,    alive   with 

joy; 

And  all  my  being  yearned :     My  son !    My 
son! 

— William  Rose  Benet. 


face 


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A  ND  has  the  earth  lost  its  so  spacious 
**■  round, 

The  sky,  its  blue  circumference  above, 
That  in  this  little  chamber  there  is  found 
Both  earth   and  heaven — my  universe   of 

love? 
All  that  my  God  can  give  me  or  remove, 
Here  sleeping,  save  myself,  in  mimic  death, 
Sweet  that  in  this  small  compass  I  behoove 


Q 


To  live  their  living,  and  to  breathe  their 

breath! 
Almost  I  wish,  that  with  one  common  sigh, 
We  might   resign  all  mundane   care   and 

*     strife; 
And  seek  together  that  transcendent  sky, 
Where  Father,  Mother,  Children,  Husband, 

Wife, 
Together  pant  in  everlasting  life ! 

— Thomas  Hood. 


rpHE  Psalms  of  David!    Do  they  sing 
**    them  yet 
In  the  old  church  that  crowns  the  wood- 
crown  hill, 
Within  whose  ancient  pulpit,  high  uplifted, 
I    seem    to    see    my    youthful    father 
still?  .  .  . 


A  little  child,  I  see  myself,  awe-stricken, 
Watching  the  people  streaming  down  the 
aisle, 
Whose  lengthening  vista  seemed  to  me  un- 
ending, 
And  the  grand  psalm-tune  rose  and  fell 
the  while.  .  .  . 


This  was  the  day  a  thought  of  daring  thrilled 
me: 
When  the  last  Psalm  swelled  on  the  throb- 
bing air, 


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The  pew  door  opened,  down  the  broad  aisle 
speeding, 
I  climbed  with  haste  the  lofty  pulpit  stair. 

The  great  unknown  it  was  that  I  was  dar- 

King; 
But  yet  I  thought  to  gain  my  father's 
knee. 
The  top  step  reached:     Oh,  horror  and  un- 
doing! 
I  beat  upon  a  door  too  high  for  me! 

Tempest  of  tears  and  sobs  my  bosom  swell- 
ing, 
I  was  afraid,  and  all  the  world  grew  dim ; 
My  dear  young  father,  while  he  still  was 
praying, 
Opened  the  door  and  drew  me  in  to  him. 


Safe,  safe,  beside  him  with  a  heart  exulting, 
The  peace  of  Heaven  filled  my  childish 
breast ; 
Holding  his  hand,  concealed  from  all  be- 
holders, 
I  clasped  his  knees,  with  all  my  soul  at 
rest. 


Dear  father,  if  I  climb  at  last  to  Heaven 
And  beat  upon  a  door  too  high  for  me, 

Will  it  not  be  thy  hand  which  gently  opens 
That  door,  and  clasps  the  child  so  dear  to 
thee?        — Frances  Ehin  Allison. 


PJTjSR 


77o 


I    WRITE.     He  sits  beside  my  chair, 
And  scribbles,  too,  in  hushed  delight; 


He  dips  his  pen  in  charmed  air: 
What  is  it  he  pretends  to  write? 

He  toils  and  toils;  the  paper  gives 

No  clue  to  aught  he  thinks.     What  then? 

His  little  heart  is  glad;  he  lives 
The  poems  that  he  cannot  pen. 

Strange  fancies  throng  that  baby  brain. 

What  grave  sweet  looks!    What  earnest 
eyes! 
He  stops — reflects — and  now  again 

His  unrecording  pen  he  plies. 

It  seems  a  satire  on  myself: 

These  dreamy  nothings  scrawled  in  air, 
This  thought,  this  work!     O  tricksy  elf, 

Wouldst  drive  thy  father  to  despair? 

Despair!    Ah,  no;  the  heart,  the  mind 
Persists  in  hoping;  schemes  and  strives 

That  there  may  linger  with  our  kind 
Some  little  record  of  our  lives. 

Beneath  his  rock  i'  the  early  world 

Smiling  the  naked  hunter  lay, 
And  sketched  on  horn  the  spear  he  hurled, 

The  urus  which  he  made  his  prey. 


Like  him  I  strive  in  hope  my  rhymes 
May  keep  my  name  a  little  while : 


^ f(Al — Hi 


m 


o 


T/o 


ad 


O  child,  who  knows  how  many  times 
We  two  have  made  the  angels  smile? 
■ — William  Canton. 


do 


QJMALL  traveller  from  an  unknown  shore, 
^     By  mortal  eye  ne'er  seen  before, 

To  you,  good  morrow. 
You  are  as  fair  a  little  dame 
As  ever  from  a  glad  world  came 

To  one  of  sorrow. 

Perhaps  you  really  wished  to  come, 
But  now  you  are  so  far  from  home 

Repent  the  trial. 
What !  did  you  leave  celestial  bliss 
To  bless  us  with  a  daughter's  kiss? 

What  self-denial! 

The  Earth  is  full  of  lovely  things, 
And  if  at  first  you  miss  your  wings, 

You'll  soon  forget  them; 
And  others,  of  a  rarer  kind, 
Will  grow  upon  your  tender  mind — 

If  you  will  let  them — 

Until  you  find  that  your  exchange 

Of  Heaven  for  earth  expands  your  range 

Even  as  a  flyer, 
And  that  your  mother,  you,  and  I, 
If  we  do  what  we  should,  may  fly 

Than  angels  higher. 

— Cosmo  Monhhouse. 


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DETWEEN  the  dark  and  the  daylight, 
■*-*     When  the  night  is  beginning  to  lower, 
Comes  a  pause  in  the  day's  occupations, 
That  is  known  as  the  Children's  Hour. 

I  hear  in  the  chamber  above  me 

The  patter  of  little  feet, 
The  sound  of  a  door  that  is  opened, 

And  voices  soft  and  sweet. 

From  my  study  I  see  in  the  lamplight, 
Descending  the  broad  hall  stair, 

Grave  Alice,  and  laughing  Allegra, 
And  Edith  with  golden  hair. 

A  whisper,  and  then  a  silence : 
Yet  I  know  by  their  merry  eyes 

They  are  plotting  and  planning  together 
To  take  me  by  surprise. 

A  sudden  rush  from  the  stairway, 

A  sudden  raid  from  the  hall ! 
By  three  doors  left  unguarded 

They  enter  my  castle  wall ! 

They  climb  up  into  my  turret 

O'er  the  arms  and  back  of  my  chair; 

If  I  try  to  escape,  they  surround  me; 
They  seem  to  be  everywhere. 

They  almost  devour  me  with  kisses, 
Their  arms  about  me  entwine, 


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V^E  think  our  fathers  fools,  so  wise  we 

*    grow; 
Out*  wiser  sons,  no  doubt,  will  think  us  so. 

— Alexander  Pope. 


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.Till  I  think  of  the  Bishop  of  Bingen 
In  his  Mouse-Tower  on  the  Rhine! 

Do  you  think,  O  blue-eyed  banditti, 
^  Because  you  have  scaled  the  wall, 
Such  an  old  moustache  as  I  am 
Is  not  a  match  for  you  all? 

I  have  you  fast  in  the  fortress, 

And  will  not  let  you  depart, 
But  put  you  down  into  the  dungeon 

In  the  round-tower  of  my  heart. 

And  there  will  I  keep  you  for  ever, 

Yes,  for  ever  and  a  day, 
Till  the  walls  shall  crumble  to  ruin, 

And  molder  in  dust  away! 

—Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 

QOME  feelings  are  to  mortals  given, 

With  less  of  earth  in  them  than  heaven  : 
And  if  there  be  a  human  tear 
From  passion's  dross  refined  and  clear, 
A  tear  so  limpid  and  so  meek 
It  would  not  stain  an  angel's  cheek, 
'Tis  that  which  pious  fathers  shed 
Upon  a  duteous  daughter's  head. 

— Sir  Walter  Scott. 


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T'VE  got  a  letter,  parson,  from  my  son 
A  'way  out  west, 
An'  my  oP  heart  is  heavy  as  an  anvil  in  my 

breast, 
To  think  the  boy  whose  futur'  I  had  once  so 

proudly  planned 
Should  wander  from  the  path  o'  right  an' 

come  to  sich  an  end. 

His  letters  come  so  seldom  that  we  somehow 
sort  o'  knowed 

That  Billy  was  a-trampin'  in  a  mighty  rocky 
road, 

But  never  once  imagined  he  would  bow  my 
head  in  shame 

An'  in  the  dust  'd  waller  his  oP  daddy's  hon- 
ored name. 

He  writes  from  out  in  Denver,  an'  the  let- 
ter's mighty  short — 

I  just  cain't  tell  his  mother;  it  'd  break  her 
poor  oP  heart. 

An'  so  I  reckoned,  parson,  you  might  break 
the  news  to  her: 

Bill's  in  the  legislatur',  but  he  doesn't  say 
what  fur.     — James  Barton  Adams, 


rpHIS  is  the  time  of  the  year,  my  boys 
■*■      When  we  kids  get  out  and  make  a  noise 
To  see  our  daddies  fall  in  line 
And  act  like  us  ( !)  in  a  baseball  nine. 


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Just  see  Bill's  father  and  his  nerve — 
He  can't  come  near  the  simplest  curve! 
And  there's  Jim's  dad  so  lean  and  thin — 
He  don't  know  if  he's  out  or  in! 

Just  see  Tom's  pa  the  ground  uproot! 

See  Harry's  dodging  at  a  shoot! 

See,  waving  wildly  in  the  air, 

The  strikes  that  should  he  home  runs  there! 

And  when  at  last  the  game  is  done, 
It  puts  an  end  to  us  kids'  fun. 
We  help  our  daddies,  one  and  all, 
Who  thought  they  still  could  play  baseball. 
— Alexander  MacLean. 


<\JI7'HY  did  you  do  it?'  demanded  an 
*  *  angry  father  from  a  small  son  who 
had  just  broken  an  old  and  valuable  vase. 
'I  guess  it  was  just  because  I  am  a  little 
boy,'  answered  the  child.  And  could  there 
have  been  a  more  truthful  or  a  more  disarm- 
ing answer?  What  other,  except  that  we 
lose  our  childhood,  have  we  to  offer  the 
Father  of  All  for  our  human  folly? 

— George  Shattuck. 

</^1EORGIE,  that  little  boy  over  yon- 
^*  der  hasn't  any  daddy.    Wouldn't  you 
like   to    give    him    your    white    rabbit?' — 
'Can't  I  give  him  my  daddy?' 

— London  Punch, 


J  HBP 


HPHERE  came  to  port  last  Sunday  night 
•*■      The  queerest  little  craft, 
Without  an  inch  of  rigging  on; 

I  looked  and  looked — and  laughed ! 
It  seemed  so  curious  that  she 

Should  cross  the  Unknown  water, 
And  moor  herself  within  my  room — 

My  daughter!'    O  my  daughter! 

-Yet  by  these  presents  witness  all 

She's  welcome  fifty  times, 
And  comes  consigned  in  hope  and  love — 

And  common-meter  rhymes. 
She  has  no  manifest  but  this; 

No  flag  flies  o'er  the  water; 
She's  too  new  for  the  British  Lloyds — 

My  daughter!    O  my  daughter! 

Ring  out,  wild  bells — and  tame  ones  too; 

Ring  out  the  lover's  moon; 
Ring  in  the  little  worsted  socks, 

Ring  in  the  bib  and  spoon. 
Ring  out  the  muse,  ring  in  the  nurse, 

Ring  in  the  milk  and  water. 
Away  with  paper,  pen,  and  ink — 

My  daughter!    O  my  daughter! 

— George  Washington  Cable. 


npHE  Bible  tells  sluggards  to  go  to  the 
A    ant;  but  in  these  days  most  of  them 
go  to  their  daddies. 

— Christopher  Bannister. 


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'rpiS  bedtime;  say  your  hymn,  and  bid 
*      'Good-night; 
God  bless  Mamma,  Papa,  and  dear  ones 

all/ 
Your  half -shut  eyes  beneath  your  eyelids 

fall, 
Another  minute,  you  will  shut  them  quite. 
Yes,  I  will  carry  you,  put  out  the  light, 
And  tuck  you  up,  although  you  are  so 

tall! 
What  will  you  give  me,  sleepy  one,  and 

call 
My  wages,  if  I  settle  you  all  right? 

I  laid  her  golden  curls  upon  my  arm, 
I  drew  her  little  feet  within  my  hand, 
Her  rosy  palms  were  joined  in  trustful 
bliss, 
Her  heart  next  mine  beat  gently,  soft  and 
warm 
She  nestled  to  me,  and  by  Love's  com- 
mand, 
Paid    me    my    precious    wages,    'Baby's 
Kiss.' — Francis,  Earl  of  Rosslyn. 

FN  the  mid- watches  of  the  winter  night 
Lit  with  cheery  lamp  and  hearth  aglow 
As  goodly  books  their  best  before  me 

strow, 
And  all  is  still  as  my  fond  thoughts  are 
bright, 
Till,    sudden,    soundeth    laughter,    boyish, 
light! 


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Too  brief  for  half  his  glee  the  day's  quick 
flow, 

So  doth  my  son  on  slumberous  hours  be- 
stow 

His  bubbling  mirth,  and  laugh  to  the 
frosty  night. 

My  merry  boy !     God  give  thee  books  good 
store; 

A  holy  love  for  them,  to  guide  thy  wit 

Straight  to  their  soul;  the  gladness — all 
of  it— 
Of  him  who  readeth  late  o'  nights ;  nor  more 

Of  grief  than  this,  but  such  sweet  tender- 
ness 

As  when  thy  son,  some  night,  laughs  his 
caress.  — Wallace  Rice. 

;   LOOK  upon  the  little  frame 
■"■       As  helpless  on  my  arm  it  lies: 
Thou  giv'st  me,  child,  a  father's  name, 
God's  earliest  name  in  Paradise. 

Like  Him,  creator  too  I  stand: 

His  power  and  mystery  seem  more  near; 
Thou  giv'st  me  honor  in  the  land, 

And  giv'st  my  life  duration  here. 

This  is  the  blessing  and  the  prayer 
A  father's  sacred  place  demands: 

Ordain  me,  darling,  for  thy  care, 

And  lead  me  with  thy  helpless  hands. 

— Bayard  Taylor. 


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tfftyJDad 


A    KIND  winsome  wifie, 
***•       A  clean  cantie  hame, 
An'  smilin'  sweet  babies, 
To  lisp  the  dear  name; 
Wi'  plenty  of  labor, 

An'  health  to  endure, 
Make  time  to  row  round  ay 
The  ae  happy  hour. 

— Alexander  Laing. 

AULD  Daddy  Darkness  creeps  frae  his 
hole, 
Black  as  a  blackamoor,  blind  as  a  mole: 
Stir  the  fire  until  it  lowes,  let  the  bairnie 

sit, 
Auld  Daddy  Darkness  is  no  wantit  yet. 

See  him  in  the  corners  hidin'  frae  the  licht, 
See  him  at  the  window  gloomin'  at  the  nicht ; 
Turn  up  the  gas  licht,  close  the  shutters  a', 
An*  Auld  Daddy  Darkness  will  flee  far 
awa\ 

Awa'  to  hide  the  birdie  within  its  cosy  nest, 
Awa'  to  lap  the  wee  flooers  on  their  mith- 

er's  breast, 
Awa'  to  loosen  Gaffer  Toil  frae  his  daily  ca', 
For  Auld  Daddy  Darkness  is  kindly  to  a*. 

He  comes  when  we're  weary  to  wean's  frae 

oor  waes, 
He  comes  when  the  bairnies  are  gettin  aff 

their  claes; 

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To  cover  them  so  cosy,  an'  bring  bonny 

dreams, 
So  Auld  Daddy  Darkness  is  better  than  he 

seems. 

Steek  yer  een,  my  wee  tot,  ye'll  see  Daddy 

then ; 
He's  in  below  the  bed-claes,  to  cuddle  ye 

he's  fain; 
Noo  nestle  to  his  bosie,  sleep  an'  dream  yer 

fill, 
Till   Wee   Davie   Daylicht   comes   keekin' 

owre  the  hill.        — James  Ferguson. 

npHIS  is  not  only  one  man,  this  the  father 
*■•    of  those  who  shall  be  fathers  in  their 

turns ; 
In  him  the  start  of  populous  states  and  rich 

republics, 
Of  him  countless  and  immortal  lives  with 
countless     embodiments     and     enjoy- 
ments. — Walt  Whitman. 

NEVER  knew  father,  how  crooked  and 
A  deformed  soever  his  son  were,  that  would 
either  altogether  cast  him  off,  or  not  ac- 
knowledge him  for  his  own;  and  yet  (unless 
he  be  merely  besotted  or  blinded  in  his  af- 
fection) it  may  not  be  said  but  he  plainly 
perceiveth  his  defects,  and  hath  a  feeling  of 
his  imperfections.  But  so  it  is,  he  is  his 
own.  — Montaigne. 


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A  MONGST  other  things  my  father  had 
*^  especially  been  persuaded  to  make  me 
taste  and  apprehend  the  fruits  of  duty  and 
science  by  an  unforced  kind  of  will  and  of 
mine  own  choice,  and  without  any  compul- 
sion or  rigor  to  bring  me  up  in  all  mildness 
and  liberty;  yea,  with  such  kind  of  super- 
stition that,  whereas  some  are  of  opinion 
that  suddenly  to  awaken  young  children, 
and  as  it  were  by  violence  to  startle  and 
fright  them  out  of  their  deep  sleep  in  a 
morning  (wherein  they  are  more  heavy  and 
deeper  plunged  than  we )  doth  greatly  trou- 
ble and  distemper  their  brains,  he  would 
every  morning  cause  me  to  be  awakened  by 
the  sound  of  some  musical  instrument. 
This  example  may  serve  to  judge  of  the 
rest;  as  also  to  commend  the  judgment  and 
tender  affection  of  so  careful  and  loving  a 
father:  who  is  not  to  be  blamed,  though  he 
reaped  not  the  fruits  answerable  to  his  ex- 
quisite toil  and  painful  fertilizing. 

— Montaigne. 

/^ORANUS  the  Spaniard,  at  a  table  at 
^te-/  dinner  fell  into  an  extolling  his  own 
father,  saying,  'If  he  could  have  wished  of 
God,  he  could  not  have  chosen  amongst  men 
a  better  father.'  — Lord  Bacon. 

TF  a  boy's  best  friend  is  his  mother,  why  is 
A  not  a  girl's  best  friend  her  father? 


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A  S  thou  to  thy  father,  so  thy  son  to  thee. 


-Christopher  Bannister. 


"V^EARS  an'  years  ago,  when  I 
*■       Was  just  a  little  lad, 
An'  after  school  hours  used  to  work 

Around  the  farm  with  Dad, 
I  used  to  be  so  wearied  out 

When  eventide  was  come 
That  I  got  kind  o'  anxious-like 

About  the  journey  home; 
But  Dad,  he  used  to  lead  the  way 
An'  once-'n-a-while  turn  round  an'  say, 

So  cheerin'-like,  so  tender,  "Come! 

Come  on,  my  son;  you're  nearly  home!" 

That  allers  used  to  help  me  some; 

An*  so  I  followed  father  home. 

I'm  old  an'  grey  an'  feeble  now, 

An'  trimbly  at  the  knee, 
But  life  seems  jest  the  same  to-day 

As  then  it  seemed  to  me, 
For  I  am  still  so  wearied  out 

When  eventide  is  come, 
An'  still  get  kind  o'  anxious-like 

About  the  journey  home; 
But  still  my  Father  leads  the  way, 
An'  once-'n-a-while  I  hear  him  say, 

So  cheerin'-like,  so  tender,  "Come! 

Come  on,  my  son,  you're  nearly  home!" 
An',  same  as  then,  that  helps  me  some; 

An'  so  I'm  following  Father  home. 


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FEATHER,  now  my  prayer  is  said, 
*■■       Lay  your  hand  upon  my  head ! 
Pleasures  pass  from  day  to  day, 
But  I  know  that  love  will  stay. 

While  I  sleep  it  will  be  near; 
I  shall  wake  and  find  it  here; 
I  shall  feel  it  in  the  air, 
When  I  say  my  morning  prayer. 

And  when  things  are  sad  or  wrong, 
Then  I  know  that  love  is  strong; 
When  I  ache  or  when  I  weep, 
Then  I  know  that  love  is  deep. 

Love  is  old  and  love  is  new, 
You  love  me  and  I  love  you; 
And  the  Lord  who  made  it  thus, 
Did  it  in  His  love  for  us. 

— William  Brighty  Rands, 


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QJING  them  upon  the  sunny  hills, 
^     When  days  are  long  and  bright, 
And  the  blue  gleam  of  shining  rills 

Is  loveliest  to  the  sight! 
Sing  them  along  the  misty  moor, 
Where  ancient  hunters  roved, 
And  swell  them  through  the  torrent's  roar. 

The  songs  our  fathers  loved ! 

Teach  them  your  children  round  the  hearth, 
When  evening  fires  burn  clear, 


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And  in  the  fields  of  harvest  mirth, 

And  on  the  hills  of  deer. 
So  shall  each  unforgotten  word, 

When  jf ar  those  loved  ones  roam, 
Call  back  the  hearts  which  once  it  stirred 

To  childhood's  happy  home. 

The  green  woods  of  their  native  land 

Shall  whisper  in  the  strain, 
The  voices  of  their  household  band 

Shall  breathe  their  names  again; 
The  heathery  heights  in  vision  rise, 

Where,  like  the  stag,  they  roved. 
Sing  to  your  sons  those  melodies, 

The  songs  your  fathers  loved! 

— Felicia  Dorothea  Hemans. 

ROUNDS!    I  was  never  so  bethumped 
^*  with  words 

Since  first  I  called  my  brother's  father  dad. 
— William  Shakespeare. 

DE  kind  to  thy  father,  for  when  thou  wert 
"  young, 

Who  loved  thee  so  fondly  as  he? 
He  caught  the  first  accents  that  fell  from 
thy  tongue, 

And  joined  in  thy  innocent  glee. 
Be  kind  to  thy  father,  for  now  he  is  old, 

His  locks  intermingled  with  grey; 
His  footsteps  are  feeble,  once  fearless  and 
bold; 

Thy  father  is  passing  away. 


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npHE  joys  of  parents  are  secret;  and  so 
■*■  are  their  griefs  and  fears;  they  can- 
not utter  the  one,  or  they  will  not  utter  the 
other.  Children  sweeten  labors;  but  they 
make  misfortunes  more  bitter ;  they  increase 
the  cares  of  life,  but  they  mitigate  the  re- 
membrance of  death.        — Lord  Bacon. 


\  WAY!  let  naught  to  love  displeasing, 
***■     My  Winif  reda,  move  your  care ; 
Let  naught  delay  the  heavenly  blessing, 
Nor  squeamish  pride,  nor  gloomy  fear. 

What  though,  from  fortune's  lavish  bounty, 
No  mighty  treasures  we  possess; 

We'll  find  within  our  pittance  plenty, 
And  be  content  without  excess. 

Through  youth  and  age,  in  love  excelling, 
We'll  hand  in  hand  together  tread; 

Sweet-smiling  peace  shall  crown  our  dwell- 
ing, 
And  babes,  sweet-smiling  babes,  our  bed. 

How  should  I  love  the  pretty  creatures, 
While  round  my  knees  they  fondly  cling! 

To  see  them  look  their  mother's  features, 
To  hear  them  lisp  their  mother's  tongue! 

And  when  with  envy  time  transported 
Shall  think  to  rob  us  of  our  joys, 

You'll  in  your  girls  again  be  courted, 
And  I'll  go  wooing  in  my  boys 


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TV/fY  wife  and  child,  come  close  to  me, 
^  -*•     The  world  to  us  is  a  stormy  sea: 

With  your  hands  in  mine, 

If  your  eyes  but  shine, 
I  care  not  how  wild  the  storm  may  be. 

For  the  fiercest  wind  that  ever  blew 
Is  nothing  to  me,  so  I  shelter  you; 

No  warmth  do  I  lack, 

For  the  howl  at  my  back 
Sings  down  to  my  heart,  'Man  bold  and 
true!' 

A  pleasant  sail,  my  child,  my  wife, 
O'er  a  pleasant  sea,  to  many  is  life; 

,The  wind  blows  warm, 

And  they  dread  no  storm, 
And  wherever  they  go,  kind  friends  are  rife. 

But,  wife  and  child,  the  love,  the  love 
tThat  lifteth  us  to  the  saints  above 

Could  only  have  grown 

Where  storms  have  blown 
The  truth  and  strength  of  the   heart  to 
prove.  — Ebenezer  Jones. 

A    BUMPER,  my  boys !  to  a  grey-headed 
**•     pair, 
Who  watched  o'er  my  childhood  with  ten- 

derest  care. 
God  bless  them,  and  keep  them,  and  may 

they  look  down 
On  the  head  of  their  son,  without  tear,  sigh, 

or  frown.    — James  Kirhe  Paulding. 


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/^HARLES!  my  slow  heart  was  only  sad, 
^^  when  first 

I  scanned  that  face  of  feeble  infancy: 
For  dimly  on  my  thoughtful  spirit  burst 
All  I  had  been,  and  all  my  child  might 
be! 
•But  when  I  saw  it  on  its  mother's  arm, 
And  hanging  at  her  bosom  (she  the  while 
•Bent   o'er   its    features   with   a   tearful 
smile) 
Then  I  was  thrilled  and  melted,  and  most 
warm 
Impressed   a  father's  kiss:   and  all  be- 
guiled 
Of  dark  remembrance  and  presageful  fear, 
I  seemed  to  see  an  angel-form  appear — 

'Twas  even  thine,  beloved  woman  mild! 
So  for  the  mother's  sake  the  child  was  dear, 
And  dearer  was  the  mother  for  the  child. 
— Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge. 

T  LEARN  to  see  with  my  old  clouding 
*     eyes 

My  own  young  being  thrilling  as  of  yore ; 
I  pluck  forth  from  the  surge  on  Lethe's 

shore 
Some    wave-worn    treasure,    with    new- 
winged  surprise; 
Finding  my  little  sons  so  wondrous  wise 
They   conjure   back   through   Memory's 

long-locked  door 
Lovely  forgotten  dreams;  aye,  they  do 
more — 


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I    gain    a    hope    the    Boy    in    me    ne'er 

dies! 

And  griefs  that  come?     Surely,  such  griefs 
were  known 

To  him,  my  father,  quite  unguessed  by  me 

Till  now,  when  my  lads  send  me  sym- 
pathy; 
His  well-borne  burden  mine,  I  make  atone, 

Thus  only,  for  old  faults — even  then  I 
see 

His  and  all  fathers'  blessing  made  my 
own!  — Wallace  Rice. 

"VTEARS   bring  fresh  links  to  bind   us, 
**■     wife, — young  voices  that  we  hear, 
Young  faces  round  our  fire  that  make  their 

mother's  yet  more  dear, 
Young  loving  hearts,  your  care  each  day 

makes  yet  more  like  to  you, 
More  like  the  loving  heart  made  mine  when 

this  old  ring  was  new. 

And  if  God  spare  us  'mongst  our  sons  and 

daughters  to  grow  old, 
We  know  His  goodness  will  not  let  your 

heart  or  mine  grow  cold; 
Your  aged  eyes  will  see  in  mine  all  they've 

still  shown  to  you, 
And  mine  in  yours  all  they  have  have  seen 

Since  this  old  ring  was  new. 

— William  Cocc  Bennett. 


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"D  OYS,  I've  been  out  in  the  clearin' 
*-*     Choppin'  up  some  second-growth 
And,  I  swan,  it's  mighty  cheerin' 
When  the  frost  is  interferin' 
With  your  seein'  and  your  hearin' 
And  your  nachral  feelin's,  both, 
To  hear  your  sister's  voice  a-callin': 
"Supper,  dad;  the  boys  is  all  in." 

Then  I  drop  my  axe  and  listen, 

Makin'  out  I  didn't  hear, 
For  I  knew  a  voice  like  this'n, 
Which  for  years  I've  been  a-missin', 
And  I  seem  to  catch  the  glisten 

Of  two  girlish  eyes — it's  queer, 
But  your  ma  lives  in  your  sister 
As  she  was  when  first  I  kissed  her. 


You  remember  her  as  turnin' 

Thirty-odd,  and  all  wore  out; 
But  them  days  when  we  was  burnin' 
Walnut  forewood  and  earnin' 
The  old  farm  jest  sets  me  yearnin' 
That  the  years  could  turn  about 
And  your  ma  would  call  me  to  her 
From  the  days  when  first  I  knew  her. 


Seems  to  me  I  didn't  treat  her 

With  the  care  I  should  have  took ; 
Such  a  faithful  wife,  and  neater 
Than  a  hummin'-bird,  and  sweeter- 


COM| 


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God  forgive  me ! — if  I  meet  her 

There,  she'll  wear  a  lovin'  look 
And  forgive  me — she'll  be  callin', 
"Come  in,  dad,  the  night  is  fallin'!" 
— Bay  Clarke  Rose. 

<  A  WAKE,  awake,  my  little  boy! 
■**■     Thou  wast  thy  mother's  only  joy. 
Why  dost  thou  weep  in  thy  gentle  sleep? 
O  wake!  thy  father  doth  thee  keep.' 

'Oh,  what  land  is  the  land  of  dreams? 
What  are  its  mountains  and  what  are  its 
dreams? 

0  father!     I  saw  my  mother  there, 
Among  the  lilies  by  waters  fair.' 

'Dear  child!    I  also  by  pleasant  streams 
Have  wandered  all  night  in  the  land  of 

dreams ; 
But,  calm  and  warm  the  waters  wide, 

1  could  not  get  to  the  other  side.' 

'Father,  O  father!  what  do  we  here 
In  this  land  of  unbelief  and  fear? 
The  land  of  dreams  is  better  far, 
Above  the  light  of  the  morning  star.' 

— William  Blake. 

TTAPPY  is  the  man  who  was  'Sonny'  to 
■"  ■*■  his  father  and  is  'Daddy*  to  his  sons. 
— John  Jarvis  Holden. 


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ly/TY  father  loved  the  patient  angler's  art; 
^  ■*■    And  many  a  summer  day,  from  early 

morn 
To  latest  evening,  by  some  streamlet's  side 
We  two  have  tarried;  strange  companion- 
ship ! 
A  sad  and  silent  man;  a  joyous  child — 
Yet  were  those  days,  as  I  recall  them  now, 
Supremely  happy.     Silent  though  he  was, 
My  father's  eyes  were  often  on  his  child 
Tenderly  eloquent — and  his  few  words 
Were  kind  and  gentle.    Never  angry  tone 
Repulsed  me,  if  I  broke  upon  his  thoughts 
With  childish  question.    But  I  learnt  at  last, 
Learnt  intuitively  to  hold  my  peace 
When  the  dark  hour  was  on  him,  and  deep 

sighs 
Spoke  the  perturbed  spirit — only  then 
I  crept  a  little  closer  to  his  side, 
And  stole  my  hand  in  his,  or  on  his  arm 
Laid  my  cheek  softly ;  till  the  simple  wile 
Won  on  his  sad  abstraction,  and  he  turned 
With  a  faint  smile,  and  sighed,  and  shook 

his  head, 
Stooping  toward  me:     So  I  reached  at  last 
Mine  arm  about  his  neck,  and  clasped  it 

close, 
Printing  his  pale  brow  with  a  silent  kiss. 
— Caroline  Bowles  Southey. 


/^\NE   father  is   more   than 


schoolmasters 


a   hundred 
Proverb. 


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Mrhad 


"IK  THEN  you  stand  where  I  stand,  with 
»  *     your  face  to  the  west, 
With  your  boys,  like  my  boys,  half   a 
dozen  or  more, 
With  your  wife  like  your  mother  and,  save 
her,  the  best, 


Be  you  blest  in  them  all,  as  your  father 

before. 
May  your  joys  be  like  mine,  and  your  sons 

be  like  you, 
All  a  father  and  mother  Qould  wish  them 

to  be, 
Their  respect  and  their  love  prompting  each 

one  to  do 
For  the  son  I  adore,  as  my  boys  have  for 

me! 


to 

te 


When  you  stand  where  I  stand,  with  your 
face  to  the  west, 
With  the  valley  far  stretching  in  beauty 
below, 
May  it  look  like  a  spot  where  the  weary  may 
rest 
And  a  happy  old  age  be  delighted  to  go. 
Being  conscious  of  having  your  duties  well 
done, 
May  you  meet  with  your  boys  on  occa- 
sions like  this, 
Every  grace  of  the  father  enabling  each  son 
Early  joys  to  renew,  every  sorrow  dis- 
miss! — Edwin  Oscar  Gale. 


1C 


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DO 


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HAVE  two  sons,  wife — 
Two,  and  yet  the  same; 
One  his  wild  way  runs,  wife, 
Bringing  us  to  shame. 
The  one  is  bearded,  sunburnt,  grim,  and 

fights  across  the  sea, 
The  other  is  a  little  child  who  sits  upon  your 
knee. 

One  is  fierce  and  cold,  wife, 

As  the  wayward  deep; 
Him  no  arms  could  hold,  wife, 
Him  no  breast  could  keep. 
He  has  tried  our  hearts  for  many  a  year, 

not  broken  them,  for  he 
Is  still  the  sinless  little  one  that  sits  upon 
your  knee. 

One  may  fall  in  fight,  wife — 

Is  he  not  our  son? 
Pray  with  all  your  might,  wife, 
For  the  wayward  one; 
Pray  for  the  dark,  rough  soldier,  who  fights 

across  the  sea, 
Because  you  love  the  little  shade  who  smiles 
upon  your  knee. 

— Robert  Buchanan, 


C 


A  GES  ago,  Chryseis,  lovely  maiden, 
**■    Went  from  the  sacred  ship  that  bore 

her  home, 
Left  it  to  all  the  fates  wherewith  'twas  laden, 


.  tta  si . 


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Walking  four  timid  steps  to  welcome 
earth, 
Then  at  the  fifth,  light  as  Idalian  foam, 
Running    ashore,    brimful    of    tender 
mirth, 

Ages  ago. 

Ages  ago  a  father  sad  and  stricken, 

Wailing  the  daughter  ravished  from  his 
eyes, 
Mourned  by  the  beach — his  ancient  pulses 
quicken ! 
Lovely  Chrysei's  comes  from  out  the 
ship 
Slowly,  until  his  reverend  form  she  spies; 
Then  to  him  hastily,  glad,  with  trem- 
bling lip, 

Ages  ago. 

Ages  ago  old  Chryses  clasped  his  daughter, 
Happy  that   she  was  his   and  not   the 
King's. 
Smiling  through  tears  beside   that  Asian 
water 
Lovely    Chrysei's,   home   at   last,    still 
stands. 
Many  another  bard  some  maiden  sings — 
Dearer  to  me  Chrysei's  on  the  sands, 
Ages  ago. 

> — Wallace  Rice, 

TT  is  a  wise  child  that  knows  his   own 
*•  father.  — Old  Proverb. 


IT 


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f'VE  a  letter  from  thy  sire, 
"■■     Baby  mine,  baby  mine ; 
I  could  read  and  never  tire, 
Baby  mine,  baby  mine; 
He  is  sailing  o'er  the  sea, 
He  is  coming  home  to  me, 
He  is  coming  back  to  thee, 
Baby  mine! 

Oh,  I  long  to  see  his  face, 

Baby  mine,  baby  mine; 
In  his  old  accustomed  place, 
Baby  mine,  baby  mine; 
Like  the  rose  of  May  in  bloom, 
Like  a  star  amid  the  gloom, 
Like  the  sunshine  in  the  room, 
Baby  mine. 

I'm  so  glad,  I  cannot  sleep, 
Baby  mine,  baby  mine; 
I'm  so  happy,  I  could  weep, 
Baby  mine,  baby  mine; 
He  is  sailing  o'er  the  sea, 
He  is  coming  home  to  me, 
He  is  coming  back  to  thee, 
Baby  mine! 
. — Charles  Mackey. 

T   ET  fathers  remember  they  once  were 
•L*  sons,  and  sons  learn  their  fathers  once 
were  boys,  and  it  will  be  easier  for  both. 
— Christopher  Bannister. 


up 


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fccaE 


-: 


OTILL  thine  own  its  life  retaineth — 
*-'     Still  must  mine,  though  bleeding,  beat; 
And  the  undying  thought  which  paineth 
Is — that  we  no  more  may  meet. 

And  when  thou  would  solace  gather, 
When  our  child's  first  accents  flow, 

Wilt  thou  teach  her  to  say,  "Father  1" 
Though  his  care  she  must  forgo? 

When  her  little  hands  shall  press  thee, 
When  her  lip  to  thine  is  pressed, 

Think  of  him  whose  prayer  shall  bless  thee, 
Think  of  him  thy  love  had  blessed! 

Should  her  lineaments  resemble 
Those  thou  never  more  mayest  see, 

Then  thy  heart  will  softly  tremble 
With  a  pulse  yet  true  to  me. 

— Lord  Byron. 


Pi 

P 

to 

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A    FOOLISH  son  is  the  calamity  of  his 
***■     father. — The  Proverbs  of  Solomon, 


/npLIGATIONS  are  universally  defined 
^-^  by  the  bonds  of  relation.  Is  such  a  man 
your  father?  Then  it  is  implied  that  you 
are  to  take  care  of  him,  to  give  place  to  him 
in  all  things,  to  bear  his  rebukes,  his  chastise- 
ment. But  if  he  be  a  bad  father?  Were 
you  then  related  by  any  law  of  Nature  to  a 
good  father?     Nay,  but  simply  to  a  father. 

— Epictetus. 


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TJE  is  old  now, 

*  *  And  Time  and  Care  have  long  ago 
Covered  his  locks  with  winter's  snow, 
And  lined  his  brow. 

His  step  is  slow, 
Oft  in  his  walk  he  stands  to  rest, 
With  folded  arms  upon  his  breast. 

And  head  bent  low. 

His  eyes  are  dim, 
The  world  is  fading  from  his  sight, 
And  flower  and  tree  and  sun  and  light 

Are  naught  to  him. 

The  past  is  his, 
And  all  day  long  his  thoughts  will  roam, 
And  weave  again  in  fancy's  loom 

Old  memories. 

At  night  I  hear 
His  tottering  footsteps  cross  the  hall; 
Slowly  and  solemnly  they  fall 

Upon  my  ear. 

Some  night,  I  know 
That  I  shall  list  for  them  in  vain, 
That  I  shall  never  go  again 

To  kiss  his  brow. 

Perchance  e'en  now 
The  Angel  beekons  him  awajr; 


P«PH 

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LI 

JP 

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1 


And  I,  O  God,  would  have  him  stay 
AVith  me  below. 

I  cannot  weep. 
I  watch  him  slipping  from  my  side — » 
Gliding  upon  life's  ebbing  tide 

To  dreamless  sleep. 

But  tears  unshed 
Scorch  all  the  fibers  of  my  heart. 
There  will  be  none  to  soothe  the  smart 

When  he  is  dead. 

OGod!    I  cry, 
Spare  him  to  me!     He  is  my  all! 
Or  bid  thine  Angel  speed  to  call 

Me  too,  to  die! 

— Annie  Mnrgatroyd. 

npHE  parent  begins  with  an  imperfect  no- 
*■  tion  of  the  child's  character,  formed  in 
early  years  or  during  the  equinoctial  gales 
of  youth;  to  this  he  adheres,  noting  only 
the  facts  which  suit  with  his  preconception. 
- — Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 

4VV0ULr>N,T  you  like  t0  come  and 

'  *  live  with  me,  and  be  my  little  boy?' 
asked  a  kindly  man  of  a  little  lad.  'Oh,  no, 
sir,'  said  the  urchin  promptly.  'Why  not?' 
asked  the  other,  amused.  'Because  I  have 
such  a  nice  daddy  of  my  own,'  was  the  con- 
vincing answer. 


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MrJDad 


rpHE  poets  have  not  dealt  fairly  with 
*■  their  fathers.  Quick  to  sing  the  feel- 
ings of  fatherhood  themselves,  when  that 
great  blessing  and  happiness  has  been  be- 
stowed upon  them,  it  is  only  in  the  rarest 
instances  that  their  sons  in  turn  have  sung 
of  them.  One  grateful  exception,  almost 
the  only  one  in  English  poetical  literature, 
may  be  found  in  the  touching  sonnet  of  dedi- 
cation to  his  greater  father,  written  by 
Hartley  Coleridge,  who  has  thus  in  a  meas- 
ure repaid  the  sonnet  his  father  made  for 
him  when  he  was  first  put  in  his  arms  as  a 
baby,  to  be  found  elsewhere  in  this  book,  to- 
gether with  the  sonnet  the  younger  Coleridge 
composed  for  his  own  child  on  his  first  birth 
anniversary.  The  lines  to  Samuel  Taylor 
Coleridge  follow: 

FEATHER,  and  bard  revered!  to  whom  I 
*-     owe, 
Whate'er  it  be,  nry  little  art  of  numbers, 
Thou,  in  thy  night-watch  o'er  my  cradled 

slumbers, 
Didst  meditate  the  verse  that  lives  to  show 
(And  long  may  live,  when  we  alike  are  low) , 
Thy  prayer  how  ardent,  and  thy  hope  how 

strong, 
That  I  should  learn  of  Nature's  self  the 

song, 
The  lore  which  none  but  Nature's  pupils 
know. 


BosSi    a 


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^ 


The  prayer  was  beard:     I  'wandered  like  a 
breeze/ 
By  mountain  brooks  and  solitary  meres, 
And  gathered  there  the  shapes  and  fan- 
tasies 
Which,  mixed  with  passions  of  my  sadder 
years, 
Compose  this  book.     If  good  therein  there 

be, 
That  good,  my  sire,  I  dedicate  to  thee. 
— Hartley  Coleridge. 

TTUSBANDS  should  rather  be  fathers 
*■  ■*"  than  lords.  — Ldvy. 

WWAS  when  the  sea  with  awful  roar 
A  A  little  bark  assailed, 

And  pallid  fear's  distracting  power 
O'er  each  on  board  prevailed, 

Save  one,  the  Captain's  little  child, 
Who  steadfast  viewed  the  storm; 

And  cheerful,  with  composure  smiled 
At  danger's  threatening  form. 

'Why  playing  thus?'  a  sailor  cried, 

'Whilst  terrors  overwhelm?' 
'Why  yield  to  fear?'  the  boy  replied; 

'My  father's  at  the  helm.' 

— Author  Unknown. 


I 


T  is  a  wise  father  that  knows  his  own 
child.  —WilUam  Shakespeare. 


da 

Id 

to 


ota 


■nap 


rpHE  Sun,  sweet  girl,  hath  run  his  year- 
"■■    long  race 
Through  the  vast  nothing  of  the  eternal 

sky 
Since  the  glad  hearing  of  the  first  faint 

cry 
Announced  a  stranger  from  the  unknown 
place 
Of  unborn  souls.     How  blank  was  then  the 
face, 
How   uninformed  the  weak  light-shun- 
ning eye, 
That  wept  and  saw  not.    Poor  mortality 
Begins  to  mourn  before  it  knows  its  case, 
Prophetic  in  its  ignorance.     But  soon 
The  hospitalities  of  earth  engage 
The  banished  spirit  in  its  new  exile: — 
Pass  some  few  changes  of  the  fickle  Moon, 
The  merry  babe  has  learned  its  mother's 

smile, 
Its  father's  frown,  its  nurse's  mimic  rage. 
— Hartley  Coleridge. 

f'HpWAS   midnight;  not   a   sound  was 
■"■    heard 

Within  the' — 'Daddy,  won't  you  look 
An'  see  my  pooty  'ittle  house? 

I  wis'  oo  wouldn't  read  oor  book — " 

'Within  his  palace  where  the  king 
Upon  his  couch  in  anguish  lay' — 

'Daddy,  dad-dee,  I  wis  oo'd  come 
An'  have  a  'ittle  tonty  play — ' 


p«ng 

'OQ 


'No  gentle  hand  was  there  to  bring 

The  soothing  draught,  or  cool  his  brow; 

His  courtiers  and  his  pages  gone' — 
'Come,  daddy,  come;  I  want  oo  now.' 


Down  goes  the  book  with  needless  force, 
And  with  expression  far  from  mild; 

With  sullen  air  and  clouded  brow 
I  seat  myself  beside  my  child. 

Her  trusting  little  eyes  of  blue 

With  mute  surprise  gaze  in  my  face, 

As  if  in  its  expression  stern 
Reproof  and  censure  she  could  trace. 

Anon  her  little  bosom  heaves, 

Her  rosy  lips  begin  to  curl, 
And  with  a  quivering  chin  she  sobs, 

'Daddy  don't  love  his  'ittle  girl  T 

King,  palace,  book,  are  all  forgot; 

My  arms  are  round  my  darling  thrown  .- 
The  thundercloud  has  burst,  and  lo! 

Tears  fall  and  mingle  with  her  own. 


Da 

IP 

to 

te 


A  SK  your  elders  to  tell  you  their  histories. 
***•  You  will  find  incidents  of  heroism  or  pa- 
tience or  disinterested  love  that  will  make 
your  hearts  glow,  and  records  of  time  differ- 
ing from  the  present,  calling  for  other  stand- 
ards and  powers;  and  this  knowledge  will 
make  you  understand  them  better. 


\ma 


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15 


\K7HEN   the  black-lettered  list  to   the 
™  *     gods  was  presented 
(The  list  of  what  fate  for  each  mortal  in- 
tends), 
At  the  long  string  of  ills  a  kind  goddess  re- 
lented, 
And    slipped    in    three    blessings — wife, 
children,  and  friends. 

In  vain   surly   Pluto   maintained  he  was 
cheated, 
For  justice  divine  could  not  compass  its 
ends ; 
The  scheme  of  man's  penance  he  swore  was 
defeated,    [    • 
For  earth  becomes  heaven  with  wife,  chil- 
dren, and  friends. 

—William  Robert  Spencer. 


"pvIMPLED  scheeks,  mit  eyes  off  plue, 
*~"     Mout'  like  it  vas  moisd  mit  dew, 
Und  leetle  teet'  schust  peekin'  droo — 
Dot's  der  baby. 

Curly  head,  und  full  off  glee, 
Drowsers  all  oudt  at  der  knee — 
He  vas  been  blayin*  horse,  you  see — 
Dot's  leedle  Yawcob. 

Von  hundord-sixty  in  der  shade 
Der  oder  day  vhen  she  vas  weighed — 
She  beats  me  soon,  I  vas  afraid — 
Dot's  mine  Katrina. 


D£3 

DQ 


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mr£)ad 


Barefooted  head,  und  pooty  stoudt, 

Mit  grooked  legs  dot  vill  bend  oudt, 

Fond  off  his  bier  und  sauer-kraut — 

Dot's  me  himself. 

Von  schmall  young  baby,  full  off  fun, 
Von  leedle  prite-eyed,  roguish  son, 
Von  frau  to  greet  vhen  vork  is  done — 
Dot's  mine  family. 

— Charles  Fellen  Adams. 


\  li  7"HEN  Dad  has  worn  his  trousers  out, 
*  *       They  pass  to  brother  John; 
Then  mother  trims  them  round  about, 
And  William  puts  them  on. 

When  William's  legs  too  long  have  grown, 

The  trousers  fail  to  hide  'em, 
So  Walter  claims  them  for  his  own 

And  stows  himself  inside  'em. 


B 


Next  Sam's  fat  legs  they  close  invest 
And,  when  they  won't  stretch  tighter, 

They're  turned  and  shortened,  washed  and 
pressed 
And  fixed  on  me — the  writer. 


Ma  works  them  into  rugs  and  caps 
When  I  have  burst  the  stitches; 

At  doomsda3r  we  shall  see  (perhaps) 
The  last  of  Dad's  old  breeches. 


r-i 


V — 1 


SUPJHfi 


S3     i^^wiiioSa 


raBBi^  -*-*«*«*  «^Bcsa=gj 


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COMEWHAT   apart   from  the  village, 

^  and  nearer  the  Basin  of  Minas, 

Benedict     Bellefontaine,     the     wealthiest 
farmer  of  Grand-Pre, 

Dwelt  on  his  goodly  acres;  and  with  him, 
directing  his  household, 

Gentle  Evangeline  lived,  his  child,  and  the 
pride  of  the  village. 

Stalworth  and  stately  in  form  was  the  man 
of  seventy  winters ; 

Hearty  and  hale  was  he,  an  oak  that  is  cov- 
ered with  snowflakes; 

White  as  the  snow  were  his  locks,  and  his 
cheeks  as  brown  as  the  oak-leaves. 

Fair  was  she  to  behold,  this  maiden  of  seven- 
teen summers. 
— Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 

"V/fY  daddy,  all  these  many  years 
■*■•*■     Of  childish  doubt  and  manly  fears, 

My  steadfast  friend  has  been; 
Unwearyingly  guiding  me 
Past  threatening  terrors  up  to  be 
Free  in  my  thought,  in  action  free, 

At  peace  without,  within. 

Yet  three  times  in  my  little  life 
He  interposed,  and  ended  strife ; 

And  curious  now  it  is 
To  think  of  all  he's  done  for  me 
And  that  these  trifles  now  should  be 
Most  grateful  in  my  memory 

Of  all  my  memories. 


pnnac 


fflvhad 


Once,  a  mere  child  with  sunny  curls, 
Which  I  despised,  as  like  a  girl's, 

I  locked  the  door,  and  sheared 
Each  ringlet,  most  defiantly; 
And  my  good  daddy  smiled  on  me, 
And  understood,  and  set  me  free 

From  all  the  threats  I  feared. 

And  once,  when  I  came  home  in  blood, 
Much  battered,  and  besmeared  with  mud. 

And  said  I'd  had  a  fight, 
My  daddy  asked  me  if  I'd  won, 
Patted  my  back,  said,  'Good,  my  son!' 
And  gave  me  praise  for  what  I'd  done 

In  every  one's  despite. 

And  once,  when  I  was  sure  I'd  die 
Before  help  came,  so  sick  was  I — 

A  gardener's  pipe  the  cause, 
My  daddy  understood  again, 
And  said  that  boys  had  to  be  men, 
And  I'd  make  a  good  citizen 

When  once  I  knew  the  laws. 

How  many  matters  of  more  ill 
He    helped    me    through — and    helps    me 
still— 
I  have  no  space  to  say; 
But  this  I  know,  these  three  I  name, 
Where  I  found  kindness  and  not  blame, 
And  understanding  saved  me  shame, 
Stand  boldest  out  to-day. 

— John  Jarvis  H olden. 


£~DC~V> 


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UP 


. ,; 


/^V  TIME  and  Change ! — with  hair  as  grey; 
^^  .  As  was  my  sire's  that  winter  day, 
How  strange  it  seems,  with  so  much  gone 
Of  life  and  iove,  to  still  live  on!  .  .  . 
We  sped  the  time  with  stories  old, 
Wrought  puzzles  out,  and  riddles  told.  .  .  , 
Our  father  rode  again  his  ride 
On  Memphremagog's  wooded  side; 
Sat  down  again  to  moose  and  samp 
In  trapper's  hut  and  Indian  camp; 
Again  he  heard  the  violin  play 
"Which  led  the  village  dance  away, 
And  mingled  in  its  merry  whirl 
The  grandam  and  the  laughing  girl; 
Or,  nearer  home,  our  steps  he  led 
Where  Salisbury's  level  marshes  spread 

Mile-wide  as  flies  the  laden  bee; 
Where  merry  mowers,  hale  and  strong, 
Swept,  scythe  on  scythe,  their  swaths  along 

The  low  green  prairie  of  the  sea. 
We  shared  the  fishing  off  Boar's  Head, 

And  round  the  rocky  Isle  of  Shoals 

The  hake-broil  on  the  driftwood  coals; 
The  chowder  on  the  sand-beach  made, 
Dipped  by  the  hungry,  steaming  hot, 
With  spoons  of  clamshell  from  the  pot. 
— John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


ULi 


LEATHERS  that  wear  rags 
*       Shall  make  their  children  blind : 
But  fathers  that  bear  bags 
Shall  see  their  children  kind. — Shahs. 


KS  c/ 


tfty-JDaJl 


HP  HOSE  flaxen  locks,  those  eyes  of  blue, 
**■      Bright  as  thy  mother's  in  their  hue; 
Those  rosy  lips,  whose  dimples  play 
And  smile  to  steal  the  heart  away, 
Recall  a  scene  of  former  Joy, 
And  touch  thy  father's  heart,  my  Boy! 

And  thou  canst  lisp  a  father's  name — 
Ah,  William,  were  thine  own  the  same! — 
No  self-reproach — but,  let  me  cease — 
My  care  for  thee  shall  purchase  peace ; 
Thy  mother's  shade  shall  smile  in  joy, 
And  pardon  all  the  past,  my  Boy! 

Why,  let  the  world  unfeeling  frown, 
Must  I  fond  Nature's  claim  disown? 
Ah,  no — though  moralists  reprove, 
I  hail  thee,  dearest  child  of  love, 
Fair  cherub,  pledge  of  youth  and  joy — 
A  father  guards  thy  birth  my  Boy! 

O  'twill  be  sweet  in  thee  to  trace, 
Ere  age  has  wrinkled  o'er  my  face, 
Ere  half  my  glass  of  life  is  run, 
At  once  a  brother  and  a  son; 
And  all  my  wane  of  years  employ 
In  justice  done  to  thee,  my  Boy! 

— Lord  Byron. 

FT  behooves  the  father  to  be  virtuous  who 
desires  his  son  to  be  more  virtuous  than 
he  has  been. 


•: 


Id 


B 


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IN  afternoons,  when  Baby-Boy  has  had 
a  splendid  nap, 
And  sits,  like  any  monarch  on  his  throne,  in 

nurse's  lap, 
In  some  such  wise  my  handkerchief  I  hold 

before  my  face, 
And  cautiously  and  quietly  I  move  about 

the  place; 
Then  with  a  cry  I  suddenly  expose  my  face 

to  view, 
And  you  should  hear  him  laugh  and  cry 

when  I  say  'Booh!' 

Sometimes  that  rascal  tries  to  make  believe 
that  he  is  scared, 

And,  really,  when  I  first  began,  he  stared 
and  stared  and  stared; 

And  then  his  under-lip  came  out,  and  far- 
ther out  it  came, 

Till  mamma  and  the  nurse  agreed  it  was  a 
cruel  shame; 

But  now  what  does  that  same  wee  toddling, 
lisping  Baby  do 

But  laugh  and  kick  its  little  heels  when  I 
say  'Booh!' 

He  laughs  and  kicks  his  little  heels  in  rap- 
turous glee,  and  then 

In  shrill  despotic  treble  bids  me  'Do  it  all 
aden!' 

And  I — of  course  I  do  it;  for,  as  his 
progenitor, 


— rj\ 

o 


WPG 


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pretty,  pleasant  play  as  this  that 


It  is  such  pretty,  pleasant  play 

I  am  for! 
And  it  is,  oh,  such  fun!  and  I  am  sure  that  I 

shall  rue 
The  time  when  we  are  both  too  old  to  play 

the  game  of  'Booh!' 

— Eugene  Field, 

/^\F  all  estates  that  fall  to  man 
^-^     Since  time  began, 
I'm  sure  that  I  had  rather 
Be  a  father, 

A  laughing  little  son  to  see 

Upon  my  knee; 
I'd  hug  him,  call  him  'Laddie' — 

He'd  say  'Daddie!' 

I'm  sure  I'd  rather  be  the  dad 

Of  some  such  lad, 
For  choice,  and  have  my  sonny, 

Than  much  money. 

— John  Jarvis  Holden. 

TTOW  often  in  my  impetuous  youth  have 
**■•*•  I  regarded  the  wishes  of  my  dad  as  a 
wall  between  myself  and  some  pleasure  I 
coveted,  only  to  be  taught  by  experience 
that  the  barrier  was  the  arm  of  a  friend, 
thrown  as  a  shield  to  guard  a  happiness 
higher  than  any  mere  pleasure. 

— Ruth  Amy  Sinclair. 


PL 

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fTIELL  me,  whither  do  they  go, 
*■■      All  the  Little  Ones  we  know? 
They  grow  up  before  our  eyes, 
And  the  fairy  spirit  flies. 
Time  the  Piper,  pied  and  gay — 
Does  he  lure  them  all  away? 
Do  they  follow  after  him, 
Over  the  horizon's  brim? 

Daughter's  growing  fair  to  see, 
Slim  and  straight  as  popple  tree, 
Still  a  child  in  heart  and  head, 
But — the  fairy  spirit's  fled. 
As  a  fay  at  break  of  day, 
Little  One  has  flown  away, 
On  the  stroke  of  fairy  bell — 
When  and  whither,  who  can  tell? 

Still  her  childish  fancies  weave 
In  the  Land  of  Make-Believe ; 
And  her  love  of  magic  lore 
Is  as  avid  as  before. 
Dollies  big  and  dollies  small 
Still  are  at  her  beck  and  call. 
But,  for  all  this  pleasant  play, 
Little  One  has  gone  away. 

Whither,  whither  have  they  flown. 
All  the  fays  that  we  have  known? 
To  what  faery  lands  forlorn 
On  the  sound  of  elfin  horn? 
As  she  were  a  woodland  sprite, 
Little  One  has  vanished  quite. 

■  T  r  i 


In — )i 


ZZo 


CZDi 


0tyJDad 


Waves  the  wand  of  Oberon: 

Cock  has  crowed — the  fay  has  gone! 

— Bert  Lesion  Taylor. 


TOEHOLD,  my  lords, 

*■"•*     Although  the  print  be  little,  the  whole 

matter 
And  copy  of  the  father:  eye,  nose,  lip, 
The  trick  of  his  frown,  his  forehead;  nay, 

the  valley, 
The  pretty  dimples  of  his  chin  and  cheek; 

his  smiles, 
The  very  mould  and  frame  of  hand,  nail, 

finger.  — William  Shakespeare. 

rpOUCH  us  gently,  Time! 

"■•      Let  us  glide  adown  thy  stream 
Gently, — as  we  sometimes  glide 

Through  a  quiet  dream. 
Humble  voyagers  are  We, 
Husband,  wife,  and  children  three — 

(One  is  lost, — an  angel,  fled 
To  the  azure  overhead.) 

Touch  us  gently,  Time! 

We've  not  proud  or  soaring  wings: 
Our  ambition,  our  content, 

Lies  in  simple  things. 
Humble  voyagers  are  We, 
O'er  Life's  dim  unsounded  sea, 
Seeking  only  some  calm  clime; — 
Touch  us  gently,  gentle  Time! 

•—Bryan  Waller  Proctor. 


77o 


L  >- 
0$. 

IMM 


HAVE  met  with  fond  mothers  and  fath- 
ers— 
They   have   bored   me,    ah,   many's   the 
time ! — 
There's  Smith  who  full  oft  has  repeated 

The  tale  of  his  youngling's  first  climb — 
Who  has  checked  off  his  infant's  cute  say- 
ings 
And  cackled  anew  o'er  each  whim, 
For  Smith  was  the  proudest  of  parents, 
And  I  learned  about  babies  from  him. 

There's  Jones  who  came  down  in  the  morn- 
ing   . 

And  cornered  me  oft  in  the  car — 
With  him  there  was  only  one  topic, 

All  others  had  sunk  below  par; 
His  babble  of  babes  was  quite  endless — 

My  eyes  would  grow  glassy  and  dim 
As  he  purled,  like  a  Tennyson  brooklet, 

And  I  learned  about  babies  from  him. 


But  now  sweet  revenge  is  my  portion; 

The  Jones  and  Smith  juniors  are  grown; 
While  I — oh,  the  unbounded  rapture! — 

Have   a  youngster,   brand-new,   of   my 
own; 
All  in  vain  are  their  efforts  at  dodging — 

I  corner  them  now  in  great  glee, 
And  they  suffer  the  things  that  I  suffered 

As  they  learn  about  babies  from  me! 
—Arthur  Chapman. 


,;i— 4i 'fGBRR^I 


«y£/ 


MyJDad 


ITEERD  'bout  what's  happened! 
*  A     Why,  o'  course  ye  has; 
Baby  up  at  Battenburg's, 
Hope  it  ain't  the  las'! 

Doctor  come  at  eight  o'clock, 
Rig  all  splashed  with  clay; 

Dad  a-trampin'  up  the  hall: 
Skeery?     I  sh'd  say! 


Kind  o'  still  roun'  the  house, 

Folks  on  tiptoe  walk 
Till  the  door  is  open 

An'  we  hear  a  squawk! 

Doctor  whispers  suthin' — 

Daddy  hollers,  "No!" 
Doctor  says,  "Twelve-pounder!" 

Daddy  whoops  out,  "Sho!" 

Daddy — happier  'n  a  clam! 

Mother  doin'  well; 
Baby  up  at  Battenburg's, 

Haven't  ye  heerd  tell? 

— Ben  King. 


rjlHE  pleasant  face  makes  home  happy, 
*■    The  tired  father  hurries  as  he  nears  the 
gate,  thinking  of  its  welcome. 

— Charles  Buxton. 


TTELP  for  your  father  is  help  for  your- 
**•  ■*  self.  — Christopher  Bannister. 


~~W- — rA — 11 

1DQ 


If 

JP 

Si 

DO 


C=2» 


QJUCH  fun  as  we  had  one  rainy  day, 
^  When  father  was  home  and  helped  us 

play, 
And  made  a  ship  and  hoisted  sail, 
And  crossed  the  sea  in  a  fearful  gale! 
But  we  hadn't  sailed  into  London  town, 
When  captain  and  crew  and  vessel  went 

down — 
Down,  down  in  a  jolly  wreck, 
With  the  captain  rolling  under  the  deck. 
But  he  broke  out  again  with  a  lion's  roar, 
And  we  on  two  legs,  he  on  four, 
Ran  out  of  the  parlor  and  up  the  stair 
And  frightened  mamma  and  the  baby  there. 
So  mamma  said  she  would  be  p'liceman  now, 
And  tried  to  'rest  us.     She  didn't  know 

how! 
Then  the  lion  laughed,  and  forgot  to  roar, 
Till  we  chased  him  out  of  the  nursery  door; 
And  then  he  turned  to  a  pony  gay 
And  carried  us  all  on  his  back  away — 
Whippity,  lickity,  kickity,  ho! 
If  we  hadn't  fun,  then  I  don't  know! 
Till  we  tumbled  off,  and  he  cantered  on, 
Never  stopping  to  see  if  his  load  had  gone. 
And  I  couldn't  tell  any  more  than  he 
Which  was  Charlie  and  which  was  me 
Or  which  was  Towser,  for,  all  in  a  mix, 
You'd  think  three  people  had  turned  to 

six, 
Till  Towser's  tail  had  caught  in  a  door; 
He  wouldn't  hurrah  with  us  any  more; 


IM*J> 


LJLJM 
JrpfciD 

And  mamma  came  out  the  rumpus  to  quiet, 
And  told  us  a  story  to  break  up  the  riot. 
— Hanna  More  Johnson. 


c — 4j=JL  I 


QEVEN  lusty  sons  sate  daily  round  the 

^  board 

Of  Gold-Rill  side;  and  when  the  hope  had 

ceased 
Of  other  progeny,  a  daughter  then 
Was  given,  the  crowning  glory  of  the  whole! 
The  father — him  at  this  unlooked  for  gift 
A  bolder  transport  seizes.     From  the  side 
Of  his  bright  hearth,  and  from  his  open 

door, 
And  from  the  laurel-shaded  seat  thereby, 
Day  after  day  the  gladness  is  diffused 
To  all  that  come,  and  almost  all  that  pass; 
Invited,  summoned,  to  partake  the  cheer 
Spread    on    the   never-empty   board,    and 

drink 
Health  and  good  wishes  to  his  new-born 

girl, 
From  cups  replenished  by  his  joyous  hand. 
— William  Wordsworth. 

CHE'S  always  standing  on  the  steps 
^    Just  by  the  cottage  door, 
Waiting  to  kiss  me  when  I  come 

Each  night  home  from  the  store. 
Her  eyes  are  like  two  glorious  stars 

Dancing  in  heaven's  own  blue: 
'Papa,'  she  calls  out  like  a  bird, 

Ts  looten  out  for  you!' 


'  $&  I — /J) — ><M&8taa 


«&  1^£sfkf23  ^3.i^i:^ 


DQ 


MyJDad 


rpHE  dinner  done,  the  lamp  is  lit, 
*■•      And  in  its  mellow  glow  we  sit 

And  talk  of  matters,  grave  and  gay, 

That  went  to  make  another  day. 

Comes  Little  One,  a  book  in  hand, 

With  this  request,  nay,  this  command 
(For  who'd  gainsay  the  little  sprite), 

'Please,  will  you  read  to  me  to-night?' 

Read  to  you,  Little  One?    Why,  yes. 
What  shall  it  be  to-night?     You  guess 
You'd  like  to  hear  about  the  Bears — 
Their  bowls  of  porridge,  tables,  chairs? 
Well,    that    you    shall.  .  .  .  There!    that 

tale's  done! 
And  now — you'd  like  another  one? 
To-morrow  evening,  Curly  Head. 
It's  'hass-pass  seven.'     Off  to  bed! 

So  each  night  another  story: 
Wicked  dwarfs  and  giants  gory; 
Dragons  fierce  and  princes  daring, 
Forth  to  fame  and  fortune  faring ; 
Wandering  tots,  with  leaves  for  bed; 
Houses  made  of  gingerbread; 
Witches  bad  and  fairies  good, 
And  all  the  wonders  of  the  wood. 

'I  like  the  witches  best,'  says  she, 
Who  nightly  nestles  on  my  knee; 
And  why  by  them  she  sets  such  store, 
Psychologists  may  puzzle  o'er. 
Her  likes  are  mine,  and  I  agree 
With  all  that  she  confides  to  me. 


<!»X   U 


^JDaJl 


And  thus  we  travel,  hand  in  hand, 
The  storied  roads  of  Fairyland. 

Ah,  Little  One,  when  years  have  fled, 
And  left  their  silver  on  my  head, 
And  when  the  dimming  eyes  of  age 
With  difficulty  scan  the  page, 
Perhaps  I'll  turn  the  tables  then ; 
Perhaps  I'll  put  the  question,  when 
I  borrow  of  your  better  sight, 
'Please,  will  you  read  to  me  to-night?' 

— Bert  Leston  Taylor. 

HOW  sweet  it  were,  if,  without  feeble 
fright, 
Or  dying  of  the  dreadful  beauteous  sight, 
An  angel  came  to  us,  and  we  could  bear 
To  see  him  issue  from  the  silent  air 
At  evening  in  our  room,  and  bend  on  ours 
His  divine  eyes,  and  bring  us  from  his  bow- 
ers 
News  of  dear  friends,  and  children  who  have 

never 
Been  dead  indeed — as  we  shall  know  for 

ever. 
Alas !  we  think  not  what  we  daily  see 
About  our  hearths — angels  that  are  to  be, 
Or  may  be  if  they  will,  and  we  prepare 
Their  souls  and  ours  to  meet  in  happy  air; 
A  child,  a  friend,  a  wife,  whose  soft  heart 

sings 
In  unison  with  ours,  breeding  its  future 
wings.  —Leigh  Hunt. 


SB 

rib 


EDO 


77o 


3*J 


KNEW  a  man,  a  common  farmer,  the 

■*     father  of  five  sons, 

And  in  them  the  fathers  of  sons,  and  in 
them  the  fathers  of  sons. 

This  man  was  of  wonderful  vigor,  calmness, 
beauty  of  person, 

The  shape  of  his  head,  the  pale  yellow  and 
white  of  his  hair  and  beard,  the  im- 
measurable meaning  of  his  black  eyes, 
the  richness  and  breadth  of  his  manners, 

These  I  used  to  go  and  visit  him  to  see,  he 
was  wise  also, 

He  was  six  feet  tall,  he  was  over  eighty 
years  old,  his  sons  were  massive,  clean, 
bearded,  tan-faced,  handsome, 

They  and  his  daughters  loved  him,  all  who 
saw  him  loved  him, 

They  did  not  love  him  by  allowance,  they 
loved  him  with  personal  love, 

When  he  went  with  his  five  sons  and  many 
grandsons  to  hunt  or  fish,  you  would 
pick  him  out  as  the  most  beautiful  and 
vigorous  of  the  gang. 

— Walt  Whitman. 


TT_T  E  was  so  ill,  my  little  boy, 

■*■  A     My  hope  and  joy, 

And  I  had  left  the  path  to  God 

So  long  untrod! 

The  selfishness  that  I  had  kept 

About  me  like  a  garment  crept 

From  off  my  soul;  I  knelt  and  wept: 


ggSB 


Punished  so  bitterly;  and  oh, 
I  merited  it  so! 

He  writhed  and  tossed,  my  little  lad, 

Lately  so  glad! 

The  fever  on  his  face  was  red 

'Gainst  the  white  bed; 

His  eyes  looked  at  me  burning  bright 

And  knew  me  not,  for  all  their  light: 

The  world  was  noon;  but  oh,  the  night 

About  my  boy,  about  my  heart, 

Lest  we  should  have  to  part! 

I  knelt  me  there  and  prayed: 

I  whispering  said 

The  prayer  in  childhood  taught  to  me 

At  a  dear  knee, 

Making  myself  a  child  once  more: 

Phrases  almost  forgot  before 

Poured  from  a  breast  so  sudden  sore, 

So  heedless  only  yesterday 

Of  God's  mysterious  way. 

So  knelt  I  there  to  pray  and  weep 

His  soul  to  keep — 

I  durst  not  pray  his  soul  to  take 

Ere  he  should  wake! 

Yet,  as  the  long  hours  lagged,  his  brow 

Grew  cooler,  though  I  knew  not  how.  .  . 

Alas,  that  it  should  be  but  now 

I  mind  me  of  God's  Fatherhood, 

Remember  He  is  good! 

— Wallace  Rice. 


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to 

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tfftyJDad 


npHE  lights  come  in  from  the  street, 
■■■      In    the    school-room    windows; 

cold, 
Solemn,  unlighted,  austere, 
Through  the  gathering  darkness,  arise 
The  chapel-walls,  in  whose  bound 
Thou,  my  father,  art  laid! 

O  strong  soul,  by  what  shore 
Tarriest  thou  now?     For  that  force, 
Surely,  has  not  been  left  vain! 
Somewhere,  surely,  afar, 
In  the  sounding  labor-house  vast 
Of  being,  is  practised  that  strength, 
Zealous,  beneficent,  firm. 

Yes,  in  some  far-shining  sphere, 
Conscious  or  not  of  the  past, 
Still  thou  performest  the  word 
Of  the  Spirit  in  whom  thou  dost  live, 
Prompt,  unwearied,  as  here!  .  .  . 

But  thou  wouldst  not  alone 
Be  saved,  my  father!  alone 
Conquer  and  come  to  thy  goal, 
Leaving  the  rest  in  the  wild. 
We  were  weary,  and  we 
Fearful,  and  we  in  our  march 
Fain  to  drop  down  and  to  die. 
Still  thou  turnedst,  and  still 
Beckonedst  the  trembler,  and  still 
Gavest  the  weary  thy  hand. 
If,  in  the  paths  of  the  world, 


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' 


Stones  might  have  wounded  thy  feet, 
Toil  or  dejection  have  tried 
Thy  spirit,  of  that  we  saw 
Nothing — to  us  thou  wast  still 
Cheerful,  and  helpful,  and  firm! 

And  through  thee  I  helieve 

In  the  noble  and  great  who  are  gone; 

Pure  souls  honored  and  blest 

By  former  ages,  who  else 

Seemed  but  a  dream  of  the  heart, 

Seemed  but  a  cry  of  desire. 

— Matthew  Arnold. 

"pvIONYSIUS  the  elder,  when  he  saw  his 
**-*  son  in  many  things  very  inordinate, 
said  to  him,  'Did  you  ever  know  me  to  do 
such  things?'  His  son  answered,  'No,  but 
you  had  not  a  prince  to  your  father.'  The 
father  replied,  'No,  nor  you,  if  you  take 
these  courses,  will  have  a  prince  to  your 
son.'  — "Lord  Bacon. 

T  TOW  many  a  father  have  I  seen, 
"■■  A     A  sober  man,  among  his  boys, 

Whose  youth  was  full  of  foolish  noise, 
Who  wears  his  manhood  hale  and  green! 

— Alfred  Tennyson. 

[Fa  son  ask  bread  of  any  of  you  that  is  a 
•"•  father,  will  he  give  him  a  stone?  or  if  he 
ask  a  fish,  will  he  for  a  fish  give  him  a  ser- 
pent? — Saint  Luke. 


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¥T'S  a  comfort  to  me  in  life's  battle 
*     When    the    conflict    seems    going 


all 


wrong, 
When  I  seem  to  lose  every  ambition 

And  the  current  of  life  grows  too  strong, 
To  think  that  the  dusk  ends  the  warfare, 

That  the  worry  is  done  for  the  night, 
And  the  little  chap  there  at  the  window 

Believes  that  his  daddy's  all  right. 

In  the  heat  of  the  day  and  the  hurry 

I'm  prompted  so  often  to  pause, 
While  my  mind  strays  away  from  the  striv- 
ing, 

Away  from  the  noise  and  applause: 
The  cheers  may  be  meant  for  some  other; 

Perhaps  I  have  lost  in  the  fight; 
But  the  little  chap  waits  at  the  window, 

Believing  his  daddy's  all  right, 

I  can  smile  at  the  downfalls  and  failure, 

I  can  smile  at  the  trials  and  pain; 
I  can  feel  that,  in  spite  of  the  errors, 

The  struggle  has  not  been  in  vain, 
If  fortune  will  only  retain  me 

That  comfort  and  solace  at  night, 
When  the  little  chap  waits  at  the  window, 

Believing  his  daddy's  all  right. 

— Louis  E.  Thayer, 


M 


Y  father  convinced  me  that  nothing  was 
useful  which  was  not  honest. 

— Benjamin  Franklin, 


Oi 


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"f^rHO  took  me  from  my  mother's  arms 

*  *      And,  smiling  at  her  soft  alarms, 
Showed  me  the  world  and  nature's  charms? 

Who  made  me  feel  and  understand 

The  wonders  of  the  sea  and  land, 

And  mark  through  all  the  Maker's  hand? 

Who  climbed  with  me  the  mountain's  height 
And  watched  my  look  of  dread  delight 
While  rose  the  glorious  orb  of  light? 

Who  from  each  flower  and  verdant  stalk 
Gathered  a  honeyed  store  of  talk 
And  filled  the  long,  delightful  walk? 

Who  now  in  pale  and  placid  light 
Of  memory  bursts  upon  my  sight, 
Bursting  the  sepulcher  of  night? 

Still  let  thy  scholar's  heart  rejoice 

With  charm  of  thy  angelic  voice ; 

Still  prompt  the  motive  and  the  choice; 

For  yet  remains  a  little  space 
Till  I  shall  meet  thee  face  to  face, 
And  not,  as  now,  in  vain  embrace. 

— William  Drennan. 

1K7HATEVER  the  unknown  days  may 

*  *  bring  me  to  build  with,  my  house  of 
life  will  be  the  better  for  the  guidance  of 
Dad,  my  father  and  friend. 


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ID 

Iq 


A  BRAHAM  LINCOLN  was  sitting 
■**•  on  his  porch  in  Springfield  one  morn- 
ing, reading  the  paper.  His  wife  was  giv- 
ing their  little  three-year-old  Willie  his 
bath.  Suddenly  the  amused  father  saw  the 
twinkle  of  rosy  legs  as  the  little  boy,  scream- 
ing with  joy  at  his  escape  from  his  mother's 
arms,  ran  past  and  on  down  the  street. 
Dropping  his  newspaper,  the  good  father 
stood  up  to  watch  the  flight,  laughing. 

Mrs.  Lincoln's  appearance  changed  the 
aspect  of  the  affair.  'Run  and  get  him, 
Abe,'  she  insisted.  'He'll  catch  his  death 
of  cold.     There,  he's  in  the  cornfield!' 

Being  chased  was  a  game  Willie  under- 
stood. The  running  of  the  tall  figure  of 
the  well  known  lawyer  was  enough  to  at- 
tract the  neighbors,  and  a  large  and  growing 
audience  saw  the  flight  and  capture. 

Past  the  smiling  friends  in  the  windows 
and  on  the  walk  strode  the  tall  man,  his 
son's  fat  legs  around  his  neck  as  the  urchin 
crowed  and  squealed  with  delight  from  his 
lofty  perch.  But  it  was  not  until  he  had 
been  covered  with  kisses  that  he  was  so  ele- 
vated, and  not  until  he  had  been  thoroughly 
kissed  again  was  he  restored  to  his  mother. 


C 


TV/fY  Daddy  is  a  fellow  man 

With  such  redeeming  features 
As  fall  within  the  common  plan 
Designed  for  human  creatures. 


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When  I  was  young  I  thought  that  he 

Was  quite  a  god,  or  near  it, 
Unsinning,  wonderful  to  see, 

And  wise  in  mind  and  spirit. 

Then  I  grew  up,  and  as  I  grew, 

I  went  to  school  and  college, 
And  learned  so  much — some  of  it  true — 

That  Dad  seemed  lacking  knowledge; 

Or  so  I  thought,  in  priggish  days 

When  life  and  I  were  callow, 
Before  I'd  caught  the  world's  wise  ways 

Through  harvest  time  and  fallow. 

And  now  again  my  Daddy  is 

A  wise,  if  mortal,  fellow, 
With  hosts  of  sound  experiences 

To  leave  him  ripe  and  mellow. 

He  is  much  like  the  rest  of  us 

Whom  years  leave  sweet  and  winning, 
And  kindly,  just,  and  generous, 

More  sinned  against  than  sinning; 

And  more  and  more  it  seems  to  me, 

No  matter  what  the  lad  is, 
He'll  wish  some  day  that  he  could  be 

As  good  as  his  good  Dad  is. 

— Alexander  MaeLean, 


7f       IQg 


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TJE  never  wished  a  single  tear  to  flow 
*  *■"     Except  in  gratitude  for  kindly  word 
Or  deed  his  heart  impelled  him  to  bestow. 
The  whispers  of  the  blest  are  by  him 
heard, 
As  in  all  ears  they  breathe  what  we  should 
do, 
To  comfort  those  who  writhe  in  sin  and 
pain, 
But  spurned  by  all,  save  by  the  noble  few 
Who  kindly  lead  them  to  a  higher  plane. 

He  never  boasts  of  any  good  he's  done, 

But  gentle  impulse  blooming  into  deeds 
Have  dropped  in  blessings  rich  on  many  a 
one 
Who  never  knew  the  hand  that  met  their 
needs. 
Through  all  the  years  the  lofty  thoughts 
have  been 
Slow  moulding  his  serene  and  happy  face, 
Till  you  can  almost  see  the  soul  within 
His  features  lighting  with  its  hollowed 
grace.  — Edwin  Oscar  Gale. 

lVyTY  children,  I  must  leave  you  now, 
■*■  ■"•     The    death-drops    stand    upon    my 

brow; 
My  pulse  is  beating  cold  and  low; 
Once  more  good-bye  before  I  go. 

And  why  good-bye?  for  what  is  death? 
I  yield  to  earth  my  fleeting  breath; 


<s  u 


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DjHu 


errs 


Some  angel  points  an  open  door; 
I  pass;  and  earthly  life  is  o'er. 

Beyond  a  vista  far  unrolls; 

Death  brings  me  to  this  world  of  souls, 

The  home  of  the  immortal  mind, 

Not  burdened  more  or  powers  confined. 

I  cannot  fear;  the  smiles  of  love 
Even  now  are  beaming  from  above; 
I  feel  the  breath  of  morn — but  lo! 
I  hear  the  summons:     I  must  go. 

I'll  come  in  spirit;  Heaven  shall  send 
Her  faithful  guardians  to  defend, 
To  teach,  to  guide  with  watchful  eye 
And  bear  you  home — Good-bye,  good-bye. 
— Edmund  S.  Holbrook. 


"VTO  man  can  tell  but  he  that  loves  his 
**-^  children  how  many  delicious  accents 
make  a  man's  heart  dance  in  the  pretty  con- 
versation of  these  dear  pledges;  their  child- 
ishness, their  stammering,  their  little  angers, 
their  innocence,  their  imperfections,  their 
necessities,  are  so  many  little  emanations  of 
joy  and  comfort  to  him  that  delights  in  their 
persons  and  society;  but  he  that  loves  not  his 
wife  and  children  feeds  a  lioness  at  home 
and  broods  a  nest  of  sorrows. 

— Jeremy  Taylor. 


^kjZ^^IBQ 


P\EAR  child,  with  eyes  of  heaven's  stain 
*^     And  face  like  fair  flowers  blowing, 
It  fills  me  with  a  sense  of  pain 
To  see  how  fast  thou'rt  growing. 

But  yesterday  heaven's  crystal  door 
Unclosed,  and  we  received  thee ; 

To-morrow  thou  wilt  find  how  poor 
The  world  that  has  deceived  thee. 

Already  with  such  serious  eyes 
Thou  look'st  between  thy  kisses, 

I  feel  that  thou  art  growing  wise, 
Too  wise  for  childhood's  blisses. 

I  think  of  Jesus  full  of  glee 

Within  the  sunlit  meadows, 
And  Mary  with  sad  eyes  that  see 

Far  off  the  Cross's  shadows. 

And  I  could  almost  bow  and  pray: 

'O  Lord,  if  this  Thy  will  is, 
Let  this  sweet  child  for  ever  play 

Amid  sweet  Nazareth's  lilies!' 

That  thou  must  leave  this  happy  plain 
To  life's  steep  Calvary  going, 

It  fills  me  with  sense  of  pain 

To  see  how  fast  thou'rt  growing. 

—William  James  Dawson. 

WISE  son  maketh  a  glad  father. 

—The  Proverbs  of  Solomon. 


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'■-.:• 

TZo 


<fc>juTrjfc. 


\*7HEN  first  I  heard  the  little  cry 
*  *      Which    told    the    earth    and 

the  sky 
I  was  a  father,  even  I, 

My  eyes  so  filled  with  holy  joy, 
A  golden  bliss  without  alloy, 
I  scarce  could  see  my  little  boy ! 

Certain  am  I  that  all  the  years 
Of  fatherhood,  its  cares  and  fears, 
Cannot  outweigh  these  happy  tears. 

Perchance  my  father's  happiness 
So  wondrous  was,  that  he  can  bless 
All  I  have  brought  him  of  distress. 

I  wept  with  gladness,  for  it  seemed — 
This  rapture  that  upon  me  streamed — 
As  if  I  slept,  as  if  I  dreamed; 

And  then,  as  in  a  swirl  of  fire, 
I  saw  my  vision  soaring  higher 
In  one  vast  sweep  of  son  and  sire, 

Until  it  touched  the  Heavenly  Throne 
And  bathed  the  Everlasting  One 
With  all  the  bliss  now  made  my  own; 


So  that  I  thought  I  understood, 
Unto  the  full,  why  God  is  good: 
He  shares  with  Man  His  Fatherhood. 

—Wallace  Rice 


told 


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